


Conjunction

by agent_of_mischief



Series: Chasing The Starlight [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials Fusion, Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale's family is terrible, Crowley Has Chronic Pain (Good Omens), Disabled Crowley (Good Omens), Espionage, Friends to Lovers, Good Omens Big Bang 2019, Hurt/Comfort, Lyra's World (His Dark Materials), M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Slow Burn, mentions of abusive family, violence between or against animals (daemons are not animals but they are animal shaped)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-22 04:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22742875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_of_mischief/pseuds/agent_of_mischief
Summary: A secret war is going on in Europe between the oppressive Magisterium and those who dare to stand for freedom and progress, like the secret organization known as Oakley Street. Aziraphale Fell is an Oakley Street liaison, passing along messages and information from his Soho bookstore. Anthony J. Crowley is an Oakley Street spy working for the Magisterium's Consistorial Court of Discipline. When Crowley is compromised and finds himself on the run he makes a desperate plea for help to a kind bookseller he's only met once. This story is part of the 2019 Good Omens Big Bang, and will be told in two parts.
Relationships: Anathema Device & Newton Pulsifer, Anathema Device & The Them (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Hastur & Ligur (Good Omens), Sergeant Shadwell & Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Series: Chasing The Starlight [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1635259
Comments: 31
Kudos: 63
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. Stumbling Into Orbit

**Author's Note:**

> Conjunction  
> /kənˈdʒʌŋ(k)ʃ(ə)n/
> 
> ASTRONOMY: An alignment of two planets or other celestial objects so that they appear to be in the same, or nearly the same, place in the sky.

There are a few things one needs to know about this world. The first is the existence of _daemons,_ manifestations of the human soul in the form of animals. They are inseparable companions, and essentially one with every human being, fluid in shape during one’s childhood, and settling into one form in puberty. The second is that in this world the Church’s head, called The Magisterium, is an oppressive authority holding most of the political power, and its most active branch is the Consistorial Court of Discipline -or the CCD- an organization built to root out and punish heresy. Finally, operating in opposition to the CCD and the theocratic oppression of The Magisterium, a secret government agency named Oakley Street is tirelessly recruiting scholars and spies alike for their cause. It’s in the midst of this secret war that our story begins.

* * *

Anthony J. Crowley sits up straight at his desk with his daemon coiled on his shoulders. She’s a white python, large enough that there is some of her left to drape over the back of his chair even after encircling his neck once.

“Relax, we shouldn’t give ourselves away,” she hisses in his ear.

Crowley slouches on purpose. He forces himself to look the way he looks every day; a visibly bored, choleric pencil-pusher. Between the dark prescription glasses perched on his nose and his perpetual half scowl, he manages to look as cold and expressionless as his reptile daemon. Of course, for Crowley, Eve is nothing but expressionless, but he knows her and she knows him in a way no one else does.

However, there are only three things one needs to know about him to understand his agitation now. One, the building in which Crowley’s desk is in appears, on the outside, to be just another grey industrial complex converted into offices. But on the inside it is one of the main hubs of activity for agents working for the Consistorial Court of Discipline. Two, Anthony J. Crowley has worked for the CCD for years, stubbornly maintaining his inactive desk duty throughout them. Three, Crowley is a spy, tasked with providing much of the information that passes through his desk to another organization, known as Oakley Street.

Of course like any good spy –and a good spy he is, his continuous years of service are a testament to that- he has strict rules enforced to maintain his cover. No matter how urgent, no matter how big the information, he is not going to abandon his carefully cultivated network. _Especially not now,_ Crowley thinks. Not when speculations about a leak are once again being whispered among his colleagues.

Eve, as if reading his thoughts, whispers again in his ear.

“They haven’t sssusspected you, don’t worry.”

“How can you be sure?” Crowley mutters to her.

“We would know. You know how they operate here,” Eve hisses. There’s a hint of bitterness in her words, and Crowley lifts a hand to soothingly stroke her head.

“You’re right,” he concedes, simply because he hopes she is.

When an ominous figure starts advancing towards his desk, Crowley thinks Eve might have been wrong, but he doesn’t let it show on his face.

“Crowley.” Mr Ligur, one of his superiors, drawls the name like it's an insult. His chameleon daemon gives Eve an imperious glance from her perch atop the man’s head.

“What is it?” Crowley disguises his anxiety as insolent impatience.

“Lady Beel wants to see you." Malicious glee is dripping from Ligur's words. Crowley lets the weight of his daemon on his shoulders comfort him.

"Whatever about?" he asks, getting up.

Ligur flashes a cruel smile. "You're coming on a field mission."

* * *

In a dusty bookshop in Soho, Aziraphale Z. Fell is building a fire despite it being a fairly warm if rainy day. He sets up the kindling with care and he makes sure to place a specific little strip of paper in the middle of it where the fire will burn the hottest. The scribbling on that piece of paper looks like gibberish and while only one other person aside from Aziraphale can read it, its mere existence is a dangerous secret.

Once the fire has caught in earnest, Aziraphale sinks back into his worn armchair with a satisfied sigh. He steals a glance towards the door and his satisfaction grows when he sees no one approaching.

"How about a nice cup of cocoa, Eden? I think we've earned it," he says to the large raven perched on the armchair's back.

The daemon shakes her head in a resigned manner. "Isn't passing the message along more urgent?"

"All in due time, dear," he says and pushes himself up.

Eden hops onto his shoulder to follow him to the kitchen, but unlike Aziraphale she doesn't seem willing to put the content of the encrypted message to rest just yet.

"When do you think it was written?" she crows softly.

Aziraphale hums thoughtfully for a moment. "Our informant takes lots of precautions, but I don't think they'd delay something like that more than necessary.".

"It took them long enough to even suspect we are here," Eden says derisively.

"We do have to be extra careful, the CCD will start poking around the West End, if they haven't already," Aziraphale mutters.

"Actually selling a book once in a while can do wonders for averting suspicion."

"Hush, you cheeky bird," says Aziraphale, but he smiles fondly at her.

Still, he knows she has a point. If the Consistorial Court is sending its hounds to sniff around the West End, maybe they are better informed than they had previously assumed. Maybe the enemy also has deep undercover spies like the one that passes encrypted messages to Aziraphale, presumably from within the CCD's circles of operatives. Maybe, and this next thought sends a cold chill down Aziraphale's spine, it is their own spy that has been compromised.

Aziraphale knows virtually nothing about this person, aside from the fact that they are both working for Oakley Street, towards a common goal. Only, while Aziraphale sits comfortably in his bookshop, they are risking their life every day inside the wolf's den. So there is a strange sense of guilt and grief at the idea of anything happening to them.

Eden, ever perceptive of Aziraphale's mood changes, gently pecks at his cheek to draw him out of his musings. He explains his concern to her.

Eden considers it for a moment. "They don't know anything about us, only that the drop-off points for the messages are in the West End. Even if the worst happens it will not lead the CCD here."

Aziraphale is startled by his own daemon's shrewdness. "Yes, but I can't help but feel responsible. I am supposed to provide sanctuary to our agents. And I've worked with this one for so long I, well, I can't help but feel a sense of kinship."

Eden gives a full body shudder, a few errant feathers shedding at the gesture.

"Their last message seemed normal," she finally says. "They don't mention being under suspicion, and if they had been caught they couldn't have left it for us."

This puts Aziraphale somewhat at ease. Still, he decides to ask Head Office about it. Some sort of confirmation that his mysterious partner is alright. He watches the flames flicker, absentmindedly petting Eden who coos in appreciation. They share this calm moment of affection until Aziraphale’s cocoa runs out and the fire gets reduced to embers.

* * *

“Get a move on, won’t you, Crawly?” Hastur snaps.

Crowley grits his teeth and hisses a curse under his breath. His superior finds the nickname terribly clever which only makes Crowley hate it more.

He tries and fails to straighten up and pick up his pace. Walking all bloody morning would make his legs sore on a good day, let alone in this damned humidity. He wants to curse at the Heavens for the steady drizzle that has been going on for the best part of an hour and seems to have seeped down to his very bones.

“If you can’t wait just go on ahead, why won’t you?” Crowley snarls.

“Let’s go,” Ligur says, shoulder checking Crowley. “He can stumble his way to the hotel, I ain’t staying in this rain longer than necessary.”

Ligur and Hastur hasten their pace and leave Crowley behind, to his infinite relief.

“Don’t listen to them,” Eve says. There is fire in her voice. _How dare they mock him for his pain?_ Sometimes she wants to lash at Hastur’s slimy little daemon, eat the mean little frog whole. _Then we’d see who’s laughing._

She doesn’t say that. She affectionately flicks her tongue at Crowley's cheek and nudges him. “Do we need to take a ressst?”

Crowley nods. But the busy street is not exactly lined with benches. He grumbles again. “What did those two idiots think we would accomplish, patrolling the streets like stupid hounds?”

“You know, maybe we would come across a man with an Oakley Street pin, preaching heresy in the streets," Eve says.

Crowley laughs at that, but he gets short of breath. He really does need to get off his feet before he collapses, and preferably do so away from the rain and humidity. He glances around, but it’s Eve that spots it.

“How about there?” she asks, pointing at a street corner with her snout.

“A bookshop?”

“They will be keeping the air dry for the books, and there will be places to sit and browse through books."

Crowley doesn’t need more convincing. He is already making his way towards ’A. Z. Fell and Co’.

* * *

Aziraphale snaps his head up at the dreaded sound of the store bell. He is about to tell whoever came in that they are closed, rain be damned, when he takes in the state of the man who staggers in, leaning on a cane, breath coming out short. He is drenched and even partially hidden behind a pair of dark glasses, his expression looks strained. His snake daemon is shivering, coiled tightly over his shoulders.

“Can I help you?” Aziraphale asks, more gently than what he had initially intended.

The stranger looks up at him and flashes him a half-smile. “I just need a place to step out from the rain for a moment, and I saw you are open, and-”

He seems intent on babbling, but Aziraphale has noticed how heavily he is leaning on his cane, and he can’t help doing the polite thing really.

“Would you like to rest for a moment?” He gestures to one of the armchairs nearest to the fireplace. It's his own armchair, the only one presently not covered in tomes.

The man’s face lights up. He nods graciously and throws himself on it like a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood. Aziraphale has the time to observe the stranger and his daemon better. He is rather tall; somehow it is more obvious now that he is sitting down, as if he uncoiled himself. He doesn’t take off his glasses or his damp coat, but he removes his hat to reveal a head of flattened red hair. Aziraphale can’t help but notice that the man is handsome; he is an admirer of beauty wherever it might be found, and a stranger walking into his shop is no exception.

“So, you’re Mr A. Z. Fell?” the man asks, after some heat seems to have returned to his face.

“You can call me Aziraphale,” Aziraphale says immediately. He is surprised by his own eagerness.

“Aziraphale Fell?” The man raises an eyebrow high enough to peek over his glasses.

Aziraphale lowers his head and his hands start to involuntarily wring. “Yes, I know it’s-”

“Very biblical. But it is a pretty name.” The man is quick to reassure him.

“Yes, my parents were the religious types.” Aziraphale suddenly remembers the warning on a piece of paper now turned to ashes, and he wants to knock himself over the head for being so careless with his words.

“Not that I am not! I mean, I _am_ a theology scholar,” he tries to amend. “What is your name?”

“Anthony J. Crowley,” the man says. “You can call me Crowley.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale tries the sound of that and he finds it pleasing. _It is_ , he reminds himself, _a dangerous thing to feel_.

“Would you like some tea?” he asks, because he knows polite gestures won’t fail him where his words might.

Crowley nods and Aziraphale disappears into the back room kitchenette. Through the crack in the half open door, he steals glances at his unexpected guest. ‘Threatening’ would not have been a word he would’ve applied to the limping, flustered man who walked into his store a few minutes ago. But he observes him now, reassessing - all black clothes and sharp edges, eyes completely hidden behind dark glasses with a large snake daemon coiled around his neck, her white scales glinting yellow where the firelight hits-- Anthony J. Crowley looks like the very definition of the word.

“You think he could be one of them?” Aziraphale whispers to Eden as he fills the kettle with slightly trembling hands.

“Not everyone who walks into the shop is going to be CCD,” she rationalizes. “I could go talk to his daemon.”

Aziraphale has a flash of a thought; black feathers caught on glistening white fangs. He doesn’t want Eden to leave his side, and he tells her as much.

“You are probably right, but it is still careless of me to speak so thoughtlessly to whoever comes in.”

“He really did get you flustered.”

Azirapale tuts. “Not flustered, just… disarmed, I suppose.”

Eden gives him a withering look.

"I'll go out there, make pleasant talk, and avoid any _sensitive_ subjects," Aziraphale declares. "Or staring," he adds sheepishly under his daemon's sharp gaze.

In the end he makes good on half of his promise. Talking with Crowley turns out to be as easy as breathing, and artfully avoiding any church-related topics is second nature for Aziraphale. They end up talking about the latest production of Macbeth at The Wyndham's Theatre, about music and art galleries. Their conversation even ventures towards academia. And when Crowley starts talking about his fascination with astronomy and leans forward, his entire face lighting up as bright as the stars in the night sky, Aziraphale suddenly finds breathing not nearly as easy as talking with Crowley.

Eden would have had something snippy to say about it, but she is no longer hovering over Aziraphale's shoulder. She has approached Crowley's daemon, who's sprawled next to the fireplace, and they are carrying their own little private conversation. If someone was to peer at the two daemons they could have assumed, by their ease and closeness, that they belong to lifelong friends rather than mere acquaintances. And when Crowley gets up, suddenly all too aware of the passage of time and the rain having stopped, they might have been a bit surprised to see him pick up the sleek white snake and not the rugged raven. He thanks Aziraphale for the tea, and he makes his way towards the door, but he lingers right before it. Aziraphale wonders if Crowley has forgotten something, and he casts a glance around.

“It was really nice talking to you,” Crowley says, lowering his gaze.

Aziraphale feels warm; the way wine makes him feel, only he hasn’t had any. “You’re welcome to come back any time,” he says. When his brain catches up to his tongue he has the decency to blush.

“I-it…If work allows me,” Crowley stammers. He puts his hat on and leaves the shop.

Aziraphale makes himself turn away from the door, eventually. Eden clears her throat.

“Not a word,” he says.

The daemon sighs. “Well, I talked to his daemon and she seemed nice enough. And you two looked very content in conversation.”

Aziraphale hums in agreement. He needs some time to think, and maybe something stronger than cocoa. He goes back to the door and he flips the store sign to ‘closed’, locking the door behind him. For someone to accuse him of not sticking to his opening hours they would have to decipher them first, and that has yet to occur.

“Content indeed,” mutters Eden, and it is one of the rare times she’s only talking to herself.

* * *

Crowley instantly misses the warmth of the cluttered little bookshop. And as he approaches his lodgings and the thought of meeting up with Ligur and Hastur looms over him, he finds himself also missing the warmth of its owner. He’s sure nice conversations are part of daily life for normal people; university students, and innkeeps, _and soft, handsome bookshop owners._

For him, the best day-to-day conversation is the one he manages to avoid altogether. That’s not only because of his precarious situation which doesn’t allow him to lower his guard among colleagues. No, he is certain that even if he was an _actual_ CCD operative he would not enjoy their work conversations. Actually, in that case he wouldn’t even have the secret knowledge of working for a good cause to help him sleep at night. There is no CCD badge, but Crowley feels its weight anyway, more than ever now that he has stepped out of the office and into the real world.

“Anthony, are you listening?” Eve prods, as he is too far gone in gloomy contemplation to notice the first few times she calls to him.

“Yes, sorry.” 

“Let’s just go in, and if those two ask we say we stopped at that pub a few streets back. It can’t be too bad. Well, not worse than usual.”

“You don’t think they already have some poor sod tied up, beating them for information they don’t have and threatening them with accusations of heresy?”

Eve tightens her coiled body around his shoulders. She is also afraid, they both are. “Even if they have…”

“We don’t do anything. I know,” Crowley says miserably. He knows all this. He knows compromising himself will help no one in the long run, and he knows it will only earn him a one-way trip to the bottom of the Thames in cement boots. “But it-”

“Hurts, I know,” Eve says. “The glasses won’t be enough to hide the distress on your face, you know, and we can’t always use the bad legs as an excuse.”

She says all of this softly, but firmly. She also let her guard down back at the bookshop. There was something about the place, a rare sense of safety, like it existed in its own little pocket of the universe. But it's behind them now, and they cannot afford to linger on indulgent comforts.

Crowley limps into the hotel reception area. The receptionist smiles politely at him, but he notices her finch daemon fluttering anxiously. She already knows, or at least guesses, at what he is and who he is with. He swallows the lump that forms in his throat at that, and tries for a friendly smile.

“Hello. I have a reservation under A. J. Crowley,” he says.

“Mr Crowley, here you go,” she says, handing him his keys. “Your luggage arrived earlier and has already been transferred to the room. It’s on the first floor, but I am afraid the elevator is out of order.”

Crowley sighs. Of course it would be. “Thank you,” he says nonetheless.

“Oh, and a Mr _Hastur_ left a message for you,” she adds, handing him a card. It reads, ‘Meet us at suite 220b,’ in a scribbled chicken scrawl.

Crowley pockets the card and asks about the suite.

“Oh, that’s on the third floor,” the receptionist says apologetically.

Crowley smiles an acidic smile, even though it is not the receptionist’s fault. “Of course it is.”

When he finally reaches the suite door, he feels like the soothing effects of the rest and the warmth have completely evaporated. He knocks on the door with apprehension. It swings open after a moment, and he is met with a leer by Hastur.

“Decided to join us, Crawly?”

"Aw, did you need my help finding the light switch?" Crowley mocks, peering into the dimly lit room behind Hastur.

"You're funny, ain’t you?” Hastur sneers as he ushers Crowley in. He slams the door with unnecessary force behind him.

Sure enough, as Crowley steps in, Ligur is also there. He is sitting at a desk, looking over a map -the kind tourist guides pass around- illuminated by candles. Crowley wonders what it is with his coworkers and their aversion to anbaric[1] appliances.

“What's this about, then?” Crowley asks, throwing himself in one of the suite’s armchairs.

“First of all, where were you for three whole hours? Surely even you cannot be that slow,” Hastur says. There’s an accusation in his tone, but it’s unclear what he's accusing him of.

“I stopped to find shelter from the rain and rest. You and your frog may enjoy getting soaked, but I do not,” replies Crowley.

“Where did you stop?” Ligur presses on.

“A pub.”

“What’s it called?” Hastur prods.

“You don’t trust my word?” Crowley croons in mock offence.

“No.” Hastur grunts.

“It would be a funny old world, if spies went around trusting each other,” Ligur says. He lights a cigarette, and he offers one to Hastur but not to Crowley.

“Is that what we are now?” Crowley almost laughs. Judging from the looks the receptionist gave him, the entire hotel staff must already be gossiping about 'those CCD blokes in the dark suits'. _Spies. Do they even grasp what it takes to be a spy?_

“We won’t be going around saying we are CCD, we are here on an undercover mission,” Ligur confirms.

“Yes, I am sure this is going to go _splendidly,”_ says Crowley.

“What, aren’t you good at that type of thing?” Hastur asks pointedly. Crowley notices his frog daemon hop onto his shoulder and lean to whisper something in his ear at that.

“Anyway, we was just checking to see where you've been,” Ligur says after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

“The Wytchfinder's pub,” Crowley drones. “They don’t exactly serve vintage tokay, but ‘s nice.”

“If that’s all, gentlemen.”Crowley doesn’t actually wait for an answer, and he doesn’t bid them goodnight as he saunters towards the door. If anything, as far as Crowley is concerned, not wishing them to die in their sleep is more than courteous, and they can’t expect him to actually do the work with them after such a show of mistrust.

Back in his own room, Crowley sloughs off his coat, vest, and trousers, and he finally removes his glasses once the lights are out. Then he places Eve gently on one of the pillows on the bed before flopping next to her Even though it’s early in the evening, he feels exhausted.

“D’you think Hastur meant anything by what he said just then?” Crowley mutters into his pillow.

“About the spying stuff?” Eve asks sleepily. She always gets drowsy even faster than Crowley, and the warmth of the room only adds to that.

“Hm, like ss-suspecting us.” Crowley says. In his tiredness he is prone to drawing out his sibilants, much like his daemon does. It used to be much more pronounced, but now it rarely surfaces when he’s sober. Still, Eve knows it’s a sign he really needs rest, mentally as well as physically.

“Maybe they just wish, you know? That there really is a ssspy and that it ‘sss you, so they can jussstify bein’ ssso mean,” she says. 

“Hhn,” says Crowley, and they both drift off.

* * *

[1] Anbaricity is what electricity is called in this world. The word comes from ‘amber’, also known in ancient Greece as ‘elektron’ or ‘electrum’ in Latin, which is where the word ‘electricity’ originates from.


	2. Chain Reaction

The Wytchfinder’s Pub is never bustling, but it is never empty either. Newt Pulsifer scuttles around the tables, picking up empty glasses and replacing them with new ones, chatting away at the regulars whenever the mood strikes them. He is used to the routine of it all now, and he has even managed to take the number of accidents down to a single shattered glass a night. Truth is, if Newt’s last name didn’t match the one in the inseam of the charred old hat displayed proudly behind the bar, he never would have been hired to work here. But it is work and he is thankful for it, even if he doesn’t understand his boss’s fascination with the witch hunters of old.

He is trying to detangle himself from an argument about some irrelevant subject he hasn't even paid proper attention to while balancing a full tray, when a wave of silence spreads around the pub. Boastful talks simmer down to murmurs, and multiple heads are turning towards the entrance. Newt follows them to see two newcomers enter the pub. The first word that comes to Newt's mind upon seeing the two men is 'shady'. They both wear dark clothes and long rough looking dusters. Their reptile daemons perched on their heads could look funny, but those are not men you laugh at, or even with. Newt's daemon scampers from his shirt pocket up to his shoulder. She tugs at a tuft of his hair and leans in to whisper in his ear.

"They look like trouble, don't you think?" Her voice is small and anxious. "Should we go hide in the back room?"

Newt shakes his head. He steadies his tray of empty glasses and continues on his way towards the bar, as if completely oblivious to the sudden shift in atmosphere. Once his back is turned to the entrance he whispers, "Keep your eyes and ears peeled, Turpin."

He slips in the back room long enough to place the glasses in the sink and put the little vole daemon back in his pocket. When he goes back out, he sees the two shady men leaning over the bar, talking to his boss. The patrons sitting at the surrounding tables are at least making an effort to pretend they are not prying, even though many a daemon have their eyes subtly following the strange pair. They speak in hushed voices, but mister Shadwell is loud enough for the three of them.

"Are yae police or somethin?" he demands of the two men. His daemon, a goose that Newt thinks looks like a bird that eats cigarette butts for breakfast and washes them down with scotch, hisses in their direction and flaps her wings angrily.

Newt uses the excuse of preparing a new batch of drinks to get closer.

"We're looking for a friend, is all," says one of the men, the dark skinned one with the chameleon daemon.

"A friend aye?" Shadwell narrows his eyes at them.

"That's right," the other man responds. He's got dirty blonde hair and a large frog daemon perched atop it.

"No man like that has been here, isn't that right laddie?"

Newt almost drops a glass when he realizes it's him Shadwell is addressing. He can feel the eyes of the two men on him, and Turpin burrows deep into his pocket and shakes.

"I-um...What?" Newt stutters.

"We're looking for a man," the blonde one addresses him now. "Tall, lean, red hair, probably wearing dark glasses. His daemon is a white snake."

Newt shakes his head in genuine confusion. "I haven't seen anyone like that," he says, relieved that it's the truth.

"Ya sure?" the dark skinned man prods.

Newt nods.

"He's sure, and he's got tables to serve," Shadwell grumbles.

Newt grabs the few drinks he managed to prepare and hurries off, thankful to be away from what felt more like an interrogation than a conversation.

He sees from the corner of his eye, the two men make a few rounds across some tables, presumably to ask the same question. Then they leave, and it feels like oxygen rushing back into the room when the door closes behind them.

Predictably, it's all anyone will talk about for a considerable amount of the evening. Theories vary, from the popular 'I bet they're CCD' to the less grounded 'they was secret agents looking for a Tartar spy'.

Newt is primarily concerned with the first theory.

"Mister Shadwell, do you think those men were CCD?" he asks while filling a beer glass from a tap.

"I daene like the look of 'em, is all I know. Bloody CCD or spies or what have you. Shady buggers."

Newt has come to find that Shadwell's hatred of witches is the first and also the last point where he and the Magisterium seem to agree. For any non-witch related matters, he is vocal -dangerously so, some could say- about where the CCD and other similar organizations can shove it if they go around disturbing his business. It is almost commendable, Newt thinks.

On his way to serve the next table, the entire tray of glasses crashes to the floor with a loud shatter.

* * *

Aziraphale tosses and turns the entire night and he wakes up before the crack of dawn. He sits down to think about how to best pass along the message he received, when he realizes time has gotten ahead of him. He still only has a half compiled message, and no idea when to drop it off. He is afraid of being watched, of the drop-off spots being under surveillance.

“We need to open the shop,” Eden chides as he keeps going on about his worries.

Aziraphale trudges to the front and starts unlocking when he notices the little square of paper on the floor. It must have been pushed under the door sometime in the night or early morning. He picks it up gingerly and turns it around. It’s one of those ready printed well-wishing cards; it has a little floral design in the corners and the words ‘Happy Anniversary’ emblazoned in a flowy script.

“Is this…” Eden starts.

“Yes, I think so,” says Aziraphale.

He may be a terrible spy himself, but that doesn’t mean Aziraphale doesn’t have spies of his own. And now one of them wants to meet.

It takes Aziraphale a moment to remember what the card means. He recalls anniversary means within the next three days, and Eden reminds him that the hydrangea in the card’s corner signifies St. James Park. They both agree that they should have their own message for Oakley Street ready by this meeting, as it gives them an opportunity; send an entirely new face to do the drop off -just this once and once only.

He lights another unjustified fire this morning, and for the following three days, every morning, he picks up a book and a little bag of duck feed and he takes a long ponderous stroll across St. James Park. He stops to feed the ducks, and he sits on his favourite bench to read. And from behind his book he peeks at the people around him. Every clandestine meeting and brooding out-of-place presence makes him nervous. ‘ _Are those CCD people looking for us?’_ He wonders every time. And with each day that his liaison doesn’t show up his anxiety grows.

On the third day, just as he’s closing his book to go home for the day he feels the weight of a hand on his shoulder.

“Oh my word Newton! You almost gave me a heart attack,” exclaims Aziraphale.

Newt gives him a sheepish smile, and he comes around to sit next to him on the bench. “I’m sorry, I just saw you leaving and I didn’t want to call out.”

“It’s alright, dear boy. But why did you ask to meet?” Aziraphale keeps his gaze on his book and his voice low.

Newt hadn’t thought to bring a book for himself, but he leans back and makes a show of holding his daemon on his palm, as if he’s talking to her. “Two shady looking people came into the pub asking around after a red-headed man with a snake daemon. I don’t know if he is one of yours, but they looked like CCD.”

Aziraphale startles at the description, so much so that he abandons his pretense and he turns to Newt. “This person they were looking for, did they give his name?”

“No, they just said he’s tall, lean, might wear dark glasses, and his daemon is a white snake.” Newton is sure this is everything.

Aziraphale bites his lip. _It_ _has to be Crowley, but why?_ _Could he be Oakley Street? Was that the true reason he came into the bookshop?_

“Do you know him?” Newton asks in a rare display of perception.

“No,” Aziraphale lies, and he’s not sure why. “What did those men look like?”

Newt describes them and their daemons with as much detail as he can recall. Aziraphale nods throughout his description, and occasionally his eyes scan the passing crowd. As if the description of the CCD men will make them manifest on the bench across from theirs.

“I am going to ask something of you, and you don’t have to do it if you think it’s a big risk,” Aziraphale says once Newt is finished.

“What is it?” The apprehension in Newt’s voice is palpable.

“I have a message that needs dropping off, but in the light of recent events I am afraid someone might have noticed my frequent visits to the drop-off spot,” Aziraphale explains.

“You want me to go?”

Aziraphale nods. “I will tell you where, and it will be the first and last time you have to do it.”

“That… Doesn’t sound too risky,” Newt concedes.

Turpin whispers something in his ear.

“You know the lake in Hyde Park?” Aziraphale asks.

Newt nods.

“There is a little boatshed on the west bank. Go to the thicket next to it, in a few days from now, and drop the acorn,” says Aziraphale. Then he gets up from the bench.

“What acorn?” Newt sputters.

Aziraphale allows himself a sly little smile. “Your left pocket,” he says and walks away.

He doesn’t wait to see the look of wonderment on Newt’s face as he palms his pocket and feels the little wooden trinket inside.

* * *

In the days following their first night in the hotel, Crowley becomes increasingly convinced of two things. One, Hastur and Ligur suspect him, or at least hope he is the CCD’s leak. Two, aside from that suspicion, they have very few other clues to go on. At first it scares him, but then he realizes he is all too happy to disappoint. Every moment he is not out with them participating in their little exercise in futility, he spends cooped up resting in his hotel room. Occasionally he migrates to one of theirs, and he puts all his energy towards annoying them until he leaves under the threat of violence.

But after a few days of this, something changes. Crowley wakes up to find the two of them have already left without bothering to drag him along. At first he assumes it’s a transparent ruse to draw him out and tail him, so he settles himself in the hotel’s restaurant and decides to burn a hole in the CCD’s allocated budget.

He is surprised when noon rolls around and the two actually return to the hotel with news. They look to be in a good mood too, which instantly sends a creeping apprehension down Crowley’s spine. He downs an entire glass of overly expensive rosé as they approach his table and sit across from him.

“Good news,” Hastur says smirking.

 _You figured out how a shower works,_ Crowley is tempted to say, but he holds his tongue.

“We got a lead,” says Ligur.

“The little bird who told us to come here sang another song,” Hastur says.

“Its last one,” Ligur adds, positively gleefully.

Crowley can barely follow, and he feels the urge to roll his eyes.

“We found out where the spies leave their messages, and if we know where the messages are-”

“We can find the spies.”

The infernal duo concludes, as if they’d practiced the little speech. Crowley feels his stomach knot up.

“You sure your little bird didn’t just decide to fuck with us?”

“Only one way to find out, eh?” Ligur grins. “Get a thick coat, we might be by the water for a while.”

They hail a cab to Hyde Park and then they walk to the lake. Ligur and Hastur refuse to answer any of Crowley’s questions on the way. The park is not one of the spots he knows, but it's Oakley Street policy that each one agent knows as little as possible to begin with. Even more so their double agent, he assumes. So Hastur and Ligur’s information could very well be accurate.

He follows them to a mouldy little boatshed and gives it an unimpressed glance. “This place?”

“What did you expect, a mailbox?” Hastur sneers.

 _“What did you expect, a mailbox?”_ Crowley mocks.

An instant later he regrets it, as he finds himself pinned to the shed’s outer wall, Ligur’s forearm pressing on his windpipe. His cane clatters to his feet and he misses the comforting weight. He feels Eve’s muscles tensing up against his neck and shoulders, hears the warning hiss as she raises her head and bares her fangs at their attackers.

“If I were you, I’d start showing some respect to my superiors,” Ligur growls. “Understood?”

Crowley nods, and the pressure leaves his throat. He takes a few greedy gulps of air and stumbles sidewards. Eve lets out another angry hiss. She was seconds away from attacking Ligur, Crowley can sense it from her even as her posture relaxes. He hushes her quietly.

“‘S not worth touching them,” he whispers to her. “You know how bad that would feel.”

“Could sssnatch his daemon,” Eve whispers back, anger still rolling off her in waves.

Crowley shakes his head, but he realizes he feels the same anger. He takes a few slow, calming breaths, picks up his cane, and he follows Hastur and Ligur into the shed.

There are enough gaps between the musty, weather-beaten planks for them to observe the outside of the shed and the periphery of the lake while staying hidden inside. They all settle on the hulls of overturned boats and abandoned crates and take watch silently. The sun steadily creeps down, and even though the occasional small rowboat crosses the lake, and they can see a few people stroll by in the distance, no one approaches the shed. Crowley is relieved, but his relief is closely rivaled by his boredom. He wants Hastur and Ligur to fail, but he wishes they’d do it without him, while he enjoyed a glass of wine and a warm fire back at the hotel.

“I see someone approaching.” Hastur breaks the silence and waves almost excitedly to the other two.

Crowley gets up on wobbly feet and approaches to peer through Hastur's spot. Sure enough, a young man is approaching the shed. That on its own wouldn’t be damning, but the way he turns his head this and that way, casting anxious glances behind his thick glasses, tells a different story. Crowley wonders if a spy can be this conspicuous.

“Maybe he’s, y’know, meeting a girl or something?” Crowley suggests.

_He can’t be Oakley Street, he can’t be Oakley street, he-_

“No, that’s not it,” Hastur says with conviction. "Isn't that the lad from…" He doesn't finish the thought, but he shares a knowing glance with Ligur Crowley wishes he could decipher.

Ligur motions to the door of the shed, which is facing away from where the young man is coming from. They slowly creep outside. Crowley exits last, but then Hastur’s hand lands on his chest.

“Not you, you stay here,” Hastur hisses.

Crowley is actually happy to oblige. He settles back down to look out of the same slit Hastur had been keeping watch through. Eve nudges him and he makes space for her to peer out with him. He can see the boy, but Hastur and Ligur actually vanish from sight.

 _Bastards are good at this part,_ Crowley thinks. He watches the boy enter a small thicket and he loses him among the trees. He neither sees or hears the fight, but the next time he sees the young man he’s being restrained and dragged towards the shed. Crowley’s breathing is quickly spiralling towards short and laboured. _He can't do this_.

When they drag the poor boy into the shed, Crowley feels his stomach twist into a painful knot. He backs away, clinging to a faint hope he'll be forgotten and somehow fade away from the gruesome scene that is sure to follow.

Hastur is holding the young man's hands behind his back, twisted at a painful angle that leaves no space for movement, while Ligur has a hand clasped firmly over his mouth. Once they are deep enough in the shed, Ligur growls a quick threat against shouting for help and then pulls his hand away.

Immediately a string of pathetic pleas leaves the young man's mouth.

"Please let me go! You can have my money! Please don't hurt me! I won't tell anyone ple-"

The rest of his words turn into a choked gasp as Ligur punches him in the stomach hard enough to make him double over. His glasses clatter to the ground at his feet.

"What did I say about keeping quiet?"

"I'm sorry. I'll be quiet!" There are tears streaming down his face and Crowley has to lower his eyes.

"Here's what's gonna happen," Hastur hisses, leaning closer to the boy's ear. "You will answer everything we ask, and you might walk out of here."

A muffled sob is his only response.

"What's your name?" Hastur asks.

"N-Newt."

"Who do you work for, Newt?" Asks Ligur.

"I-I work for Mister Shadwell in the Wytchfinder pub," Newt stutters."You met him-"

Another blow, this time to the face violently silences him. Crowley feels his stomach drop, recognizing the name of the pub he used as an alibi. Guilt floods his veins, cold and pulsing, as he realizes his offhand lie may be what condemned this poor kid.

"Who are you carrying messages for?" Ligur presses on.

"I don't know what you're talking about," pleads Newt.

This time Crowley closes his eyes before the punch lands, but he still hears the muffled impact and the pained response. His hands are trembling and he balls his fists at his side.

"It's Oakley Street, ain't it?"

"I don't know-"

_Punch._

"Who are you working with?"

"No one, please-"

_Punch._

This goes on for an uncomfortably long time. The boy, _Newt_ , doesn't give in. But he's not a good liar either, Crowley thinks desperately. _And what does it mean if he really is an Oakley Street agent?_

Ligur stops and backs away a few paces. There is relief written on Newt's face, that gets replaced by horror when he sees Ligur pull out a flick knife.

"Since you want to do it the hard way," he says darkly.

Hastur speaks up, for the first time in a while. "Wait. Why doesn't Crowley do it? Are we supposed to do all the work on our own?"

Crowley feels his legs are about to give out. The sudden weight of attention turned towards him almost crushes him.

"You need to move," Eve whispers.

He has no choice. He steps forward. There is a spark of recognition when Newt turns his eyes on him. A momentary hope that flickers out like a candle, but it's still enough to confuse Crowley further. He's never been to the pub, after all. He takes another step, and another, and with each step his mind clears a bit more as he prepares for action. He takes the knife from Ligur in one hand, the other pressing his weight onto his cane and trembling. Ligur steps aside as Crowley makes a show of sauntering towards the poor boy.

"Sure, my pleasure," he drawls, closing the last of the distance.

There will be excuses later, like 'the kid would had talked' or ‘I was already compromised’. But sometimes people simply do the only thing that they can actually live with.

Crowley can be fast if he needs to, something he has made sure no one expects. He lunges to the side, around Newt, and before anyone can react he has the blade buried in Hastur's thigh. Hastur screams and releases Newt as both his hands fly to the wound.

Crowley grabs Newt and runs towards the shed's door. They have barely crossed the threshold when Ligur crashes into Crowley with little thought and lots of violent intent. They fall to the ground in a messy grapple, daemons tumbling away with the force of the impact. Crowley lets go of his cane, useless in such close quarters, and he tries to pin Ligur instead; coiling his limbs around him like a python. Ligur reacts fast with a viciously angled knee to Crowley's stomach. Crowley's grip falters, and Ligur gains the upper hand. He's straddling Crowley's chest, and his hands close around his neck.

A gunshot rings out dangerously close, followed by a splash, but Crowley can't worry about that right now. He struggles uselessly, trying to pry Ligur's vice-like grip off for what feels like agonizing minutes. But it can’t be that long, not with his air supply entirely cut off. Crowley’s consciousness slowly slips away, and the promise of pain-free darkness is almost intoxicating enough for him to stop clawing at Ligur's grip. Then a gut-wrenching scream tears out of the man above him. Oxygen rushes back into Crowley’s lungs all too fast as Ligur falls to the side and curls up on the ground in bare-faced agony.

Crowley feels like he can taste blood in his mouth, dripping off of dozens of tiny hooked teeth on a tongue that's thin and forked. He snaps his head to the left and his eyes lock on Eve. Ligur's daemon is trapped in her jaw, bloodied and convulsing horribly. A jolt of nausea runs through him, and Eve flings the wounded chameleon on the grass. She darts towards Crowley as he reaches for his discarded cane and uses it to struggle up on his feet.

From the corner of his eye, Crowley sees Hastur drop a pistol and fall to his knees by Ligur's now unconscious form. He cannot see Newt. _The shot and the splash_ , he realizes grimly. But there is no time to be upset. He scoops Eve up and he runs as fast as his legs will go. He doesn't know if they will follow him. He doesn't even know if Ligur is alive, and he's certain Newt isn't. But he doesn't stop until he has reached the park's entrance.

Then he slows down and he takes stock of himself. He has somehow managed not to get a single drop of blood on him, and the dirt can be easily dusted away. He knows he can't lose his pursuers on foot, not with his legs, even if he has yet to see them emerge on his trail. He thanks his lucky stars when he sees an unoccupied cab approaching the moment he hits the pavement. He hails it and he tries not to slam the door behind him after he throws himself onto the seat.

Then he collects himself, and he begins giving calm instructions to the driver. He notices the splash of red dribble on the side of Eve's serpentine mouth, and like a conjuror performing a stage trick, he subtly wipes it away without the driver or his daemon noticing.

The cab rides off into the night towards the East End, and it proceeds to carve irregular patterns across its streets until midnight looms close. Driven by inexplicable forces and his growing desperation -as well as the steady rise of suspicion in the driver's face- Crowley finally gives him an address. That of a bookshop in Soho, one he didn't even know he had memorized.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanna thank [robynthemagpie_writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robynthemagpie_writes/pseuds/robynthemagpie_writes) for the wonderful prints <3


	3. Shelter

Aziraphale puts down the last of the stacks and wipes his brow. Fifteen more books to shelve and he will be done and able to reward himself with a nice glass of wine. Anyone else might find the middle of the night a peculiar time to organize his shelves, but after almost getting crushed by his ‘to put away’ pile the matter could not be put off any longer. Plus, it is technically working hours according to the schedule posted on the bookshop’s door. He still locks up of course, he is not about to invite trouble into his shop.

Trouble finds its way there anyway. Aziraphale is startled when he hears the doorbell ring, and downright alarmed when after the first shy ring it repeats with increasing urgency. He tiptoes to the door and peers out. His heart picks up to a frantic rate when he sees it’s Crowley fervently ringing. He has already unlocked the door by the time he even starts considering it might be a bad idea. He ushers Crowley in fast, affected by the man’s own obvious urgency, and it’s only with the door closed securely behind him that Aziraphale finally _looks_ at him.

Like the first time he came into the shop he is breathing hard and hunching over in a way that obscures his full height. His shades are off now, his eyes darting from surface to surface, avoiding Aziraphale’s gaze. His daemon is stretching her neck to look somewhere behind Aziraphale as if she expects danger to jump out from the bowels of the shop. Aziraphale’s protectiveness is a dangerous instinct he needs to suppress for his work, but now it rears its head with overwhelming force.

"Crowley, is everything alright?" Aziraphale is already ushering him in towards the back room.

"I- hhh." Crowley lets himself be fussed over and sat in an armchair. "I saw you were open, light still on, and I needed a place to... I needed shelter." He grinds the words out like a shameful confession.

A torrent of contradicting feelings floods Aziraphale's head; fear and suspicion in equal measure with an urge to reach out and reassure. _To touch, and hold, and protect._ "It's not raining," he says lamely, his brain a frazzled mess at the turn his thoughts take.

Crowley gives him a bemused look, and then he starts laughing. It sounds strained, like steam rushing out of a valve that was a second away from exploding. On any other day Aziraphale would have been offended. Maybe some of that still shows through, because Crowley abruptly stops.

“‘M sorry, just… You’re right, I shouldn’t be here, bringing my trouble to you.”

Crowley makes to push himself up and Aziraphale reaches a placating hand to his chest without thinking. Seeing Crowley startle at the contact, he quickly retreats and lowers his head.

“Wait, I can help you,” Aziraphale all but pleads. “I _want_ to help you.”

He watches the white snake whisper something in Crowley’s ear, and the both of them appraise him with obvious suspicion. Something about that sends a pang of hurt through Aziraphale, even though he understands.

“Why?” Crowley asks eventually.

Aziraphale would like to know that himself, even though he has several inklings on the matter. As such, it isn’t a lie so much as part of a more complicated truth when he says: “Because I can’t, in good conscience, turn away someone who came to me for help”.

Crowley’s expression turns almost pained, which confuses Aziraphale.

“What if I am a murderer or something?” Crowley asks softly. His daemon lets out a dissatisfied hiss.

“You don’t look like one,” Aziraphale says decidedly.

“You can’t be that naive,” Crowley snaps.

Aziraphale huffs in annoyance, _it’s almost like Crowley is trying to get himself turned away._

“Well, mistrusting everyone indiscriminately is as naive as trusting everyone in the same way, and I for one think that there are bad people after you, not the other way around!” he snaps.

Crowley is taken aback, and then suspicion overtakes his features once again.

“Do you know something?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.

“I live in Soho, I hear things,” Aziraphale deflects.

A parade of different emotions cross Crowley’s face, and he settles on openly terrified of what he’s about to say.

“What if I told you the CCD was after me?”

Aziraphale can recognize a leap of faith when he sees one, there is nothing more dangerous these days than openly taking what most would consider the wrong side. So he only takes a moment before he leaps along.

“Then this is the right place to be, dear,” he says. “Now, I don’t want to presume, but you look like you could use a drink.”

* * *

Dr Anathema Device calmly spreads the medical tools across a towel on the table. She is not that kind of doctor, in fact most cannot accurately pinpoint what kind of doctor she is just by looking at her work space, but she has experimental theology instruments and glowing commendations for different universities, which ensures she is for the most part left to her own devices. No one knows about The Book of course, or indeed about the nature of the ancestor who wrote it. Anathema knows how to keep certain things under wraps, but she also knows that Agnes hasn’t let her down yet. So she dutifully prepares her dubiously acquired medical instruments and glances at her watch. Her daemon, a grey swan with a knowing glint in his eye, is pacing up and down the room.

"Apollon, you're making me anxious," she tells him.

"Shouldn't _he_ be here by now? Agnes said-"

He is interrupted by the sound of wood bumping on wood, and then a young girl’s voice exclaiming “I told you to be careful!”

Anathema is puzzled at that; she recognizes the voice and it is not the visitor she expects. She steps out the front door, and sure enough she sees the familiar little gang of four children trying to manoueuvre Adam's little boat the right way around and tie it at the little pier, their daemons fretting about in airborne or swimming forms. The problem seems to be that the boat is way over capacity; between the ominous way it’s dipping in the water and half of the kids sitting precariously on the edge, throwing all balance off, it's more likely to sink than to cooperate.

"Be careful Brian!" Pepper, the impromptu captain chides. The boy in question is soaked, and hanging off the side.

"Don't wanna fall back in, Pep," he grumbles.

"Do you need any help?"

Anathema realizes in retrospect, as she watches Brian yelp and fall into the water pulling Wensleydale in with him, that startling them was not the right approach. Still, all of them, including the two boys in the water, look at her with naked relief painted across their faces.

"Anathema!" Adam exclaims, frantically beckoning her towards the boat. "He needs help."

Anathema manages to put two and two together, and she runs over. She remains impassively efficient as she takes one glance at the unconscious man lying on the floor of the boat, half covered with a tarp, and she helps pull him onto the pier. When more of him is uncovered she notices the bleeding wound on his arm and the faint bruising that has just started swelling all over his face. _I interpreted the prophecy right then,_ she thinks with a hint of self satisfied pride. His skin is cold but his breathing is steady. She is worried when she sees no daemon with him, even though she felt no disturbance in his aura. Then she notices Pandora, Adam's daemon, now in the form of a monkey, cradling a shivering little vole protectively in her hands.

Adam hops onto the pier first after Pepper makes quick work of tying the boat. "We found him passed out in the shallows and there were those-"

Anathema gives him a sharp look, and it's enough to silence him.

"Help me get him inside, quick," she urges. "Then you can tell me everything."

Adam and Pepper help her gently carry the man inside, and she urges the other two boys to get a fire started, both for their own dripping clothes and for the shivering, wounded stranger. The children are familiar enough with Anathema's houseboat; they know where to find the things she asks for and how to stay out of the way. And the four of them together are a well oiled, if somewhat off-beat machine. Apollon gathers the children's rowdy young daemons to the side, keeping them well out of the way and out of trouble much like Anathema does with the children themselves.

They watch with grim excitement as she actually pulls a bullet out of the man's arm, then deftly disinfects, and sutures the wound. Once he's soundly asleep, rid of his drenched clothes and wrapped in blankets, Anathema turns to the kids. They all default to Adam to regale her with the tale of the heroic rescue. Wensley hands around cups of tea he took the liberty of making -and if anyone noticed he ran to the kitchen the moment things started getting bloody, no one says anything.

Adam describes how they were taking a boat ride in the lake, planning to come visit her later. Then they heard a shot and steered the boat into the reeds, to approach the sound while hidden from sight. They didn't want to get into any trouble with bad people, he explains, and the men near the boatshed didn't look like good guys. They saw the young man floating face up away from the shore. At first they thought he was dead, but they weren't scared, none of them were, not even Wensley, Adam makes sure to point out. Brian, being the best swimmer and the quietest, went to check the body. He found the man was breathing and slowly paddled him into the tall reeds. They pulled him on deck and hid him under the tarp, then they waited for the bad men to go away.

"What did the bad men look like?" asks Anathema.

"There was this tall blond man, and a dark man that I think had a lizard daemon," says Brian.

"A chameleon," Wensleydale corrects him. "He was screaming, and the blond man was trying to help him, but I think they're the ones that shot him." He points at the unconscious form.

"Then they left, the blond man limped but he was still the one helping the guy with the chameleon. Whoever they fought with must have been really strong and scary," Adam concedes.

The four children and Anathema look at the young man, matching expressions of puzzlement and disbelief on their faces. Anathema decides there must have been someone else with him, but she will only know for sure when the mystery man awakens.

"Who do you reckon they were?" Brian asks suddenly.

Adam takes a long moment to think it over, brow knitted in concentration.

"Maybe mobsters or something. Or the CCD!” he says finally.

Pepper nods in agreement. “Enforcing the church’s reign of terror,” she says knowingly.

Anathema feels a pang of pride for the girl, but it’s quickly overshadowed by worry.

“Guys, remember what I’ve told you about talking about those things?” she asks.

“We should be careful about who could be listening,” says Wensley dutifully.

Anathema nods.

“But it’s just us here,” says Pepper.

“There’s him.” Adam points at the passed out man.

“He’s asleep, and the bad guys were after him anyway,” reasons Pepper.

“You cannot be too careful,” Anathema stresses. She believes in telling the truth to children, letting them know what kind of world they live in. But it is a dangerous world, and she would never forgive herself if something happened to them.

“Also, what you did today was brave, but you should never do something dangerous like that again,” she says sternly.

A collective groan comes from the four kids as Anathema launches into one of her lectures. But they all make sure to pay attention to her words.

* * *

Very few people actually face their demons. Some, like Hastur and Ligur, discover that they have more in common than not with them and become best friends. But most would rather opt for drowning them in the bottom of a glass or ten, and Crowley is among those. It doesn’t help that the bookseller makes for excellent drinking company. He doesn’t ask Crowley any questions he doesn’t feel ready to answer, he merely refills their glasses and tries to steer the conversation towards the comfortable.

Ergo, one sloshed Crowley finds himself sharing a narrow little loveseat with Aziraphale and leaning onto him more closely than could ever be considered appropriate, flushed and too out of sorts to care.

“Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate,” Crowley giggles. “Or is it Western? Same thing. You really are like an angel.”

Aziraphale sputters and wiggles himself more upright. “Oh, n-none of that.”

“No, I mean it. ‘Sss like, a guardian angel,” Crowley beams and waves the hand that holds his glass precariously.

Aziraphale -himself well into his cups by now- steadies Crowley’s hand with his own. “‘m doing what anyone should do, the decent thing to do.”

Crowley is almost overwhelmed by the warm contact. Aziraphale’s hand is soft and gentle and it reminds Crowley of all the things he is starved for. But he knows not to ask for what he wants, not even when his inhibitions are all but gone. Even when his brain is muddled, his body knows to pull away. He does so jerkily and some of the wine splashes onto the carpet.

“Oh, careful dear!” exclaims Aziraphale, hint of concern piercing through the cloud of alcohol.

“‘M sorry,” Crowley says miserably.

“It’s alright.”

“‘S not.” Crowley hates that his voice trembles. He hates to see the concern on Aziraphale’s face, so open and clear and suddenly harder to look at than looking straight into the sun. He wishes he still had his shades on even though the room is perfectly dim.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have any more wine,” says Aziraphale. “Maybe neither of us should.”

“Nnnooo,” complains Crowley.

Eve wants to weigh in. She tries to slither up his leg but her head wobbles with the alcohol and she only manages to sway her long neck left and right. Aziraphale laughs, until his own daemon plummets off her perch on the arm of the loveseat straight to the ground in a haphazard mess of fluttering wings.

“Ow, no we definitely need to s-sober up now,” he says.

He gently scoops his daemon up and settles her on a soft throw pillow. She coos at him happily.

“I am going to make us some tea, be right back,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley nods and he flops backwards, leaning into the armrest away from Eden’s pillow.

“Eve, we ssshould leave… l-leave angel alone,” Crowley mumbles, and neither he nor his daemon move.

***

Aziraphale returns only minutes later with a precariously balanced dainty tea tray. He can’t help a soft little smile at the sight of Crowley sprawled asleep on the loveseat, his daemon coiled around his legs. He half expected him to bolt in the time it took him to put the kettle on. He carefully places the tray on the small reading table and scoops Eden up.

"They'd rest better in a proper bed," he muses quietly.

"Let 'em sleep an hour or two," Eden suggests.

Aziraphale doesn't think he has it in him to wake them up anyway. He tiptoes upstairs to his apartment and returns with a generous pile of blankets. _After all, people with serpent daemons do get especially cold._

He drapes two of them over Crowley's sleeping form and one, ever so carefully, around Eve. Crowley makes an appreciative noise in his sleep, and Aziraphale feels the edges of a warm little glow in his ribcage that makes his hands want to linger. He shakes his head, _this is not appropriate, and what would his guest think if he woke up like that?_

Sleep doesn't come easily to Aziraphale even at the laziest of nights, and now he has all the more reason to stay up. _I may be no angel,_ he thinks, _but I will guard you._

Eden nibbles at his fingers to pull him out of his thoughts.

"Hm?"

"Didn't we say no staring?" she whispers coyly.

Aziraphale huffs a breathy little laugh and ruffles her crown. She makes a noise of protest and he offers his hand palm up to placate her. She hops on with a show of reluctance, and he raises her up to one of the shelves.

"What should we read, dear?" he asks softly.

Eden taps the spine of an old, well loved, and worn tome with her beak.

"Dorian Gray?" Aziraphale murmurs.

"It's what you want to read too," replies Eve.

Aziraphale doesn't argue; he takes the priced first edition off the shelf and settles on his armchair, directly across from Crowley's loveseat. Eden perches on the crook of his neck where she can peer down at the pages, and she fluffs herself up with a contented sigh.

* * *

Two broken, injured figures stumble together, interlaced and supporting each other into a building that looks nothing like a hospital. Hastur hears the laboured breathing of his partner in his ear, and each inhale stokes the fury in his chest. Each throb of pain from his leg wound tightening the coil of burning hatred in his gut.

“Almost there mate,” he mutters, voice uncharacteristically soft.

Ligur grunts out what might have been a reply. He cradles his daemon desperately to his chest, his hands sticky with her blood. They stagger into the building together. Unsympathetic curious glances pass over them, and Hastur wants to lash out at their colleagues, beat their cruelty with his own.

“Get the doctor!” he snaps, and a young man he can’t name scuttles away at the command.

He returns with Dr Dagon in toe. Her icy glare falls to Ligur, and then to his daemon, and a sign of concern breaks through her impassive mask of a face.

“What happened?” she asks, already walking them towards the infirmary in the back.

“Crowley,” Hastur says, all the fear in his heart solidifying into hatred and pouring into that one word. He knows hate, he trusts it and it doesn’t keep him up at night with fear and uncertainty, so he clings to it, lets it fill every cell of his body.

“I am gonna get the bastard, Dagon,” he says through teeth he didn’t realize he was gritting. “Even if it’s the last thing I do.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanna thank [robynthemagpie_writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robynthemagpie_writes/pseuds/robynthemagpie_writes) for the wonderful prints <3


	4. Thank You Angel

Crowley stirs awake slowly, peering out into the waking world with half lidded eyes that aren't ready to open just yet. It's only when the pounding of his heart matches that in his head that he is truly awake. He jolts up and looks around at the unfamiliar surroundings; warm wood and a mess of books. He is covered in blankets, he realizes.

"Crowley, you're awake."

Aziraphale steps into his field of vision, suit and hair rumpled. Crowley exhales. _I am safe, I am in the bookshop._ He rubs at his eyes, settles under the blankets again.

"How long have I been out?" he asks, wincing at how dry his mouth feels.

"Ah, I would have given you a bed but I couldn't bring myself to wake you up, so I'm afraid you spent the whole night there," Aziraphale says softly.

Crowley feels a creeping warmth in his chest that has nothing to do with the blankets he's under, and everything to do with the little smile Aziraphale gives him, as if he has anything to apologize for.

“Don’t worry, ‘s perfectly comfortable,” Crowley lies. His frame is stiff, but his legs are not worse than any given morning. Most importantly his head is still on his shoulders, and it’s thanks to Aziraphale he got to sleep at all.

“If you woke up anything like I did, you are going to need a cup of something strong,” says Aziraphale after a moment of silence.

“Thank you, angel.” 

Crowley wouldn't realize his slip up, weren't it for the furious blush creeping up Aziraphale's face. He chokes on his words and spits out a few haphazard vowels while Aziraphale avoids his eyes to compose himself. Crowley wishes in that moment that his drunk brain would not make any long term decisions for him.

"You remember all that?" Aziraphale mutters, almost to himself.

"I'm sorry," Crowley exclaims, just as Aziraphale says, "I'll bring you coffee," and runs off towards the back.

Crowley buries his face in his hands and sighs. 

"Is it too late to go back to the park and jump in the lake, you reckon?"

"Sssshush. Ow, sunlight hurts," replies Eve, burying herself under Crowley's blankets.

And then, muffled from her impromptu hide: “Jussst act like it wass intentional.”

So when Aziraphale returns, looking recovered, and hands him a steaming mug of coffee Crowley puts on his most debonair expression.

“Thanks, angel.”

He watches Aziraphale from behind his shades, now back on his face, and sees him stay unfazed.

“‘S because you are named after an angel,” Crowley elaborates before he can stop himself.

“Hmm,” says Aziraphale distractedly, taking a sip of his own mug.

“Big fan of nicknames me; you don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all, dear,” says Aziraphale. There is a peaceful expression on his face which only makes Crowley more prone to keep rambling.

He busies his mouth with his drink instead. It’s rich and aromatic, nothing like the dishwater they pass for coffee at the office. It's the good stuff he drinks at home. The sudden thought of his apartment sets him on edge. It's not the sparse personal effects he worries about, but haunting images of smashed pots and torn leaves, his former employers taking their rage out on his little personal Eden. Even if they don't, without him the plants will wilt away and die.

"Is everything alright?" asks Aziraphale, and Crowley realizes he has stopped drinking and is frowning at his mug.

Crowley nods. "I was just thinking about my flat, there's no one to water my plants."

"Oh. Maybe you will be able to go back soon enough," says Aziraphale.

Crowley scoffs and Aziraphale lowers his head. They both know it is an empty reassurance.

"You have a garden?" Aziraphale asks after a moment.

"House plants. It's tidier that way, and they grow better. Garden plants have no discipline."

"Discipline?" Aziraphale asks curiously, cocking his head slightly to the side.

Crowley could only describe the expression as adorable, so he opts not to describe it at all.

"Yes, they slack off, get rebellious ideas." Crowley narrows his eyes despite the fact that there is no plant present.

Aziraphale sits up and leans forward, an amused smile playing on his lips.

"You do need to tell me more about your… methods." He can't help but chuckle a bit at the last word.

 _Cheeky bastard,_ Crowley thinks, and a fond smile creeps across his face despite his best efforts.

"You see, you need to make them fear you," Crowley starts, and Aziraphale nods encouragingly.

His coffee grows cold and forgotten, and Crowley continues to talk about everything from soil consistency to how he finally got through to a particularly brave ficus. And Aziraphale listens, almost rapt in his attention, in a way no one really has before. 

* * *

Newt's first thought as consciousness sneaks up on him is _'I am dead'_. As someone who never could quite settle on what comes after, if anything at all, the thought terrifies him, and his eyes refuse to open. _Still_ , he thinks, _I feel_ _remarkably_ _alive._ After a moment, he even registers the warmth and almost imperceptible weight of his daemon on the same spot on his neck where she always curls up on to sleep. She is stirring awake too, more decisively than Newt himself.

"Is he waking?" says a female voice, and Newt finally opens his eyes to look.

He squints at the sudden influx of light, pouring generously through the clear windows. There is a constant undercurrent of nausea he can't place, and once he gets used to the light he sees an angel. She must be one, there's something almost ethereal about her, and _are there grey wings_? 

"I think he has a concussion," a male voice says.

Newt blinks hard a few times, and the woman and her feathery daemon become separate entities as his vision clears up. She's still beautiful, but it turns out she didn't glow with celestial light so much as stand right in front of one of the tall windows.

"Hello," Newt says lamely. His mouth is dry and his voice is rougher than he expected.

"Oh, you can talk. How are you feeling?"

Newt takes the time to assess that for himself. Many parts of him ache, and his hand flies to his bullet wound as the memory of a gunshot echoes in his mind. He finds it bandaged and realizes, in that moment, that he must be safe. Turpin skitters up to his cheek and nuzzles him, and he reaches a reassuring hand to her. He is on a bed, and he doesn't feel like trying to stand up yet.

"You saved me," Newt says, a hint of a question at the end.

"My friends did, they found you and they brought you to me. I'm Anathema, what's your name?"

"Newton, or Newt. Thank you, Anathema." He smiles bashfully at her.

"My friends who saved you told me what happened, but I wonder, could you tell me your version of the events?" 

Anathema doesn't beat around the bush. But Newt can't help but trust her, so he sits up with a little jolt of pain from his wounds, and starts from the beginning.

She listens attentively, her eyes sparkling with intelligence behind her thick horn rimmed glasses. Newt finds himself wishing he understood more himself.

"You don't know who they were?" Anathema asks once he finishes his narration.

"I...I have a guess," he mutters. Then he falls silent. How much should he tell her? Would it endanger her? Would she turn him in? His mind buzzes with horrible possibilities.

"Do you think it was CCD?" she asks, her expression turning into something firey and simmering at the mention of the name.

Newt nods. "Mr Fell didn't think I'd have any trouble. At least I managed to drop the acorn."

"Mr Fell?" Anathema squints.

Newt winces. She had a few choice words earlier for the 'friend' who put him in so much danger.

"I work for him sometimes, tell him stuff I hear at the pub I work at. He is a nice person. He wouldn't have sent me if he knew it was going to be like that." He's sure of as much. Mr Fell has helped him in the past, and he is not the kind of person to trick others into doing his dirty work.

Anathema nods, not looking entirely convinced.

"What about an acorn?"

"Oh, it's brilliant!" Newt lights up, and Turpin startles at his sudden raised voice. "It looks like a real acorn, weighs as much as one, but it opens up. Only, you gotta know the trick, you see, because it unscrews the opposite way!" He demonstrates the motion excitedly.

Anathema seems thoughtful. Newt feels he can hear the sound of cogs turning behind her forehead, and he waits for her to speak. A look passes between her and her daemon, but neither speak.

"Newt, I think you got involved in something bigger than you, and that we can't go back now." she says finally.

There's a conviction to her words, something knowing and deep he doesn't understand. And Newt has always been a follower, even when people didn't fish him out of lakes and stitch bullet wounds on his arm, or indeed even offer him basic courtesy. So the next words come surprisingly easy for someone who's never been accused of being decisive.

"What do we do next?"

* * *

Aziraphale gets lost in Crowley, that's the only way he can describe it. He begins a conversation to reassure the other, but his own worries and thoughts melt away like so much wax and pour through the cracks between words. It's exhilarating, and lovely, and _dangerous._ They may be on the same side, Aziraphale has decided as much, but _he_ has people he answers to. Even Eden, ever the voice of caution, seems lost in the moment. She's perched on top of Eve's coils, now less a sentinel and more a pile of content feathers against the serpent's body.

It's Crowley that breaks the spell. Aziraphale has noticed, but not quite deciphered, the edge that never entirely leaves Crowley's form. The fact that even nestled under soft blankets he squirms uneasily ever so often, and his attention occasionally drifts to something unknowable. Eventually it makes itself known in the form of words.

"I...think there are people I need to contact," Crowley blurts the moment the botanical talk has died down. 

"I can pass a message along," Aziraphale offers readily.

Crowley shakes his head, his mouth turning downwards at the edges. "I have put you in enough trouble as it is."

Aziraphale wants to tell him 'it’s what I do', but the words catch somewhere between his throat and lips. He trusts, but maybe just not enough.

"Surely you can't go out there right now," he insists.

Crowley sighs and runs his hands through his hair; a neurotic motion that makes Aziraphale want to reach out and soothe him. He clasps his hands together in front of him.

"I don't… I don't know what to do." Crowley growls in frustration.

It is almost painful to watch, and Aziraphale casts desperate glances around him as if the answer will be there, gathering dust on a bookshelf.

"Why don't you write your message, first of all?" he suggests, voice weak with uncertainty.

Crowley seems to struggle with either an abundance of ideas, or the complete lack of any, and he gives in with a huff.

"Alright, I guess."

Aziraphale brings Crowley to a writing desk and he procures pens and blank papers. Then he hovers for a second before saying, "I will make some more tea."

"I am about as much use as a tea lady, after all," he mutters bitterly to himself as he walks away.

Eden angrily pecks him on the head.

"You're right, dear," says Aziraphale. "None of that now."

She hums in appreciation and starts grooming the curls she knocked askew in her attack. Aziraphale puts the kettle on, and returns a short while later to find Crowley hunched over the desk, a frown of concentration on his face. Aziraphale would expect him to scribble and erase frantically, but Crowley is taking his time, pen hovering over the page in contemplation. Aziraphale makes his entrance loud and puts Crowley's mug down firmly, so as not to startle him.

He could blame mistrust for what happens then, or the fact that he is, in a certain capacity, a spy. The truth of the matter is, it's pure human curiosity that makes Aziraphale's gaze travel to the page Crowley is writing on. _'Compromised'_ is the only word he catches before he chastises himself and turns away. A second passes, two, and then realization strikes. 

He knocks over the mug in his urgency to take a better look. _'I have been compromised'_ Aziraphale reads, clear as day, but there is no English on the page. There's only a smattering of serpentine little symbols that only Aziraphale and one other person in the world can read as words.

"What the hell was that all about?" Exclaims Crowley, lifting the papers away from the path of the flowing stream of hot tea spreading across the desk.

Aziraphale doesn't notice any of that. Every fibre of his being is focused on that single point of knowledge, which threatens to expand and swallow him up.

"It's you," Aziraphale gasps.

Crowley makes a confused sound.

"You're Oakley Street!" Aziraphale exclaims. "You are the CCD spy!"

Crowley makes a choked sound of surprise, and then he says: “You know Oakley Street? You… Can you read this?”

Crowley holds up the paper with the coded writing, and Aziraphale reads out the scribbled phrase.

There is an interval of silence, where they stare at each other as if seeing each other for the first time. Their daemons freeze along with them, then Crowley speaks again.

"You were getting my messages. Did you get my last one?" Urgency drips from his words.

Aziraphale nods. "I did, I sent someone to pass it along to-"

He freezes. Aziraphale gets lost in Crowley, so lost that he forgets about the message, about Newton and how he hasn't heard from him yet. How could he forget? And why hasn't Newton contacted him yet?

Aziraphale is aware that Crowley is talking to him, but he doesn't hear the words. He puts his hands on Crowley's shoulders, more to steady himself than anything else. Even now his eyes linger on Crowley's lips on their way up to his face.

"I must go. You stay here, I will be back," he says.

Crowley protests, but Aziraphale's mind is already running out of the shop ahead of him. He follows it in a frenzy. If he took a moment to glance back, he would see the confused, hurt expression on Crowley's face, but he doesn't. He can't afford to get lost again.

* * *

Shadwell flips the pub sign to closed with a huff, annoyed that he’s had to do everything in the pub for the past few days. His daemon patters across the floor to him, doing her best to become a feathery obstruction in his path.

"Away with ye, Jezebel!" Shadwell snaps.

The goose in question honks back at him and flaps her wings in annoyance. They growl at each other for a moment, never the most vocal of pairs, and then the animosity melts away as suddenly as it came about. Shadwell bends down with a muttered "sorry" and his daemon runs up to him. He wordlessly picks the large waterfowl up and carries her with him back to the bar.

Their behaviour would seem strange to most people, but it just so happens that the only other person currently in the pub is more than accustomed to it. Marjorie Potts, or Madame Tracy as her doorbell nameplate right above the pub’s reads, puts down the glass she's wiping and shakes her head gently.

"Now, mister S, we all worry. It's not your fault, nor Jezebel's." 

"What dae ye know?" He grumbles. 

He places Jezebel on the bar and she's soon joined by Marjorie's daemon. The fluffy orange tomcat saunters over to the goose and rubs his head against her feathers. She leans into it despite the sound of protest she makes.

"Where's that boy gone to?" Shadwell grumbles. And oh, the things his mind can conjure. What with those shady buggers slinking around the pub the other day too.

"He might be back any moment," says Marjorie. "Isn't that right, Geronimo?"

The cat takes a break from purring up a storm nestled next to a marginally more relaxed goose and chirps in agreement.

"Maybe yer right, he-"

The rare moment of Shadwell conceding with any of Marjorie's points is interrupted by the pounding on the door. On a normal day Shadwell would bark something like "can't yae read?" while Jezebel terrorized the insistent customer from behind the glass. Now however, he runs to the door with something dangerously close to hope bubbling up in his chest.

When he opens the door it's not Newt he finds on the doorstep, but it's not a stranger either. He has seen the man before, with his condescending bird of a daemon, and he never liked him. _The southern pansy who always talks to Newt,_ his brain supplies, and he narrows his eyes at him. Jezebel has jumped off the bar and is now approaching the man, head lowered aggressively.

"I, um, I am looking for Newton," he says, taking a half a step back. His raven daemon fluffs up in retaliation to Jezebel.

"What dae ye want with 'im ya great southern pansy?" Shadwell snaps, as something inside him that cannot take the worry any longer decides to throw the entire blame on the unlikable man before him.

"I- Is he here or not?" The man - _Mr Fallon or something-_ retorts, his expression hardening. He takes a step forward and his daemon flaps her wings when Jezebel emits a low hiss.

"Now, now, what is this all about, boys?" Marjorie's voice pipes up, suddenly too close. Shadwell starts, but he finds himself pushed to the side.

"Now, dearie, do you want to come in?"

There is something in her gentle voice that leaves no room for argument. The younger man steps in, eyeing the empty pub like one would the inside of an overcrowded lion cage.

“You can call me Madame Tracy, what’s your name dear?” she asks, letting the hand that guided the man in linger on his arm.

Shadwell stares at the offending point of contact as if he can will it out of existence.

“Aziraphale Fell,” he says, and then remembering himself, “lovely to meet you.”

_Mr Fell, that was it._

“Now, is Newton here? I am afraid it’s quite urgent,” says Fell.

“What kinda shady business have ye dragged the boy in?” Shadwell walks up to him, pushing an accusing finger at his face.

Jezebel follows obediently, puffing up and glaring at Fell’s raven daemon, daring her to step down from her human’s shoulder.

Fell’s expression turns into something curious and, he could swear, somewhat pale.

“I am a bookseller, not a criminal, he is usually much more punctual with his orders is all,” Fell huffs with as much indignation as he can muster. And then, “when did you last see Newton then?”

“Lad din’t come to work last evening, without warning. Haven’t seen him today either,” Shadwell grumbles. “‘S not like him to disappear without notice.”

Even a man of limited sensitivity such as Shadwell can’t help but catch the concern on Aziraphale’s face at this. He wouldn’t say it makes him soften towards the man, but Jezebel does take a step back and mostly stops hissing.

“Can you… Can you tell him to come by the shop, if he shows up?” Fell asks.

Shadwell is about to let him have a piece of his mind, when Marjorie cuts in.

“Of course, and if you see him tell him to come by the pub, we are terribly worried.”

Fell nods. “I will, yes, jolly good.” His voice sounds far away now, lost somehow. He stumbles out of the pub, and almost breaks into a run on the street outside.

“Good riddance,” says Jezebel haughtily.

“Aye,” Shadwell agrees, giving the closed door the stink eye for good measure.

“I do hope Newton is alright,” says Marjorie softly. “Now, how about you come upstairs for a cup of tea, mister S?”

The string of obscenities that leaves Shadwell’s lips, in no way prevents his feet from obediently following her.

* * *


	5. Two Slow Dancers

Crowley paces a dent in the plush rug in Aziraphale's backroom. He's always been certain someone up there is looking at his life having a good laugh about it, and for once this ridiculousness might actually be in his favour. Aziraphale, his Oakley Street liaison. And what does he do when he finds out? He runs out of the damn shop, leaving Crowley behind.

Crowley had just enough sense of self preservation not to run after him, which manifested itself in the form of a certain snake turning herself into a vice around his legs. And maybe a bit of dread for the conversation they must have. _Hey Aziraphale, I am here because I blew it all and gave myself away trying to save a random kid, who I didn't even manage to save. No, he got shot by my horrible colleagues that I stood by and watched torture and kill people for years, all to maintain my cover, which I blew._

He rakes his hands through his hair. _What else will Aziraphale ask? What will he think of me when he hears what I have to say?_

"He will think I'm a spineless coward," Crowley says out loud.

"Who?" Eve snaps her head up to him.

"Aziraphale. When he hears the things we stood by and let happen. He is obviously much braver, he didn't even think about helping me and I could have brought the CCD straight to his doorstep. He didn't even know who we were then, he just risked it."

Crowley doesn't know whether to focus on the admiration that makes him feel for the man, or his own twisting shame. As the two tangle together in an unorthodox dance, the sound of the doorbell grabs his attention. He stumbles out of the back room just as the door closes behind Aziraphale. Crowley meets his eyes and finds a reflection of his own in them; storms brewing behind wary twitching eyelids and a treacherous sheen of tears threatening to spill. His breath catches, his own worries become distant shapes in the fog when faced with Aziraphale's state.

"Aziraphale, what happened? Is everything alright?" Crowley does his best to sound steady.

Aziraphale gives him a startled look, almost as if he didn’t expect to see him there.

"Goodness Crowley, I may have made a terrible mistake."

Crowley is equal measures surprised at how forthcoming Aziraphale is, and worried about the tremor he hears in his voice.

"We can figure it out," Crowley reassures. His words ring empty in his head, but he needs to keep Aziraphale talking. He needs to keep him from running again.

"You… You were a spy in the CCD, you might know something."

Aziraphale grabs hold of Crowley's forearms and he clings desperately for a moment before he remembers himself. He retreats violently, as if the contact burns and Crowley swallows hard.

"Let's go sit down in the back, and I'll tell you everything, angel," says Crowley.

The brief walk towards the back room feels like marching to the gallows. How will Aziraphale look at him once he's done explaining? Will he find him guilty of all the things he failed to prevent? 

They sit across from each other, Aziraphale upright and stiff on the edge of his seat, Crowley leaning back, willing himself to be swallowed up by the plush seating. He finds no comfort in it. Eve slithers up onto his lap and they look into each other's eyes. He draws courage from the fierce love he sees there.

There's so much his messages over the years couldn't cover. So much he can get off his chest. But there has been an urgency in the air ever since Aziraphale ran out earlier. 'I sent someone', he said. Crowley knows with grim certainty what he wants to hear, and he can buy himself only so much time.

"The day I came into your bookshop for the first time, I was on a CCD mission along with two other operatives; to look into Oakley Street activity in the West End."

"Got right on the mark then," says Aziraphale with a nervous little laugh.

"I had no idea about you," Crowley admits. "I wouldn't have risked coming in here if I did. Had I known I was being suspected as a spy, I wouldn't have come here nor gone much of anywhere for fear of putting innocent folk in danger. "

Aziraphale processes that for a moment. Then he looks up at Crowley, expression resolute.

"What changed, Crowley? What happened last night?"

Crowley's voice morphs into a detached monotone as he narrates the events, putting as much distance between his words and himself as he can. He is quite good at that. Instead he observes Aziraphale. He sees him grip the edges of his seat at the mention of Hyde Park. And then he observes the strangest change when he mentions the young man apprehended there. For a moment there is a spark of horror. Then Aziraphale's face glazes over, it becomes an empty, unknowable mask. His daemon, perched on the top of his chair, is so still she's reminiscent of taxidermy. It is all so _wrong_ it makes Crowley's voice crack and falter.

"What was his name?" Aziraphale asks, when Crowley pushes on to the part about the interrogation.

Both of them know it's a redundant question.

"N-Newton," Crowley says.

Aziraphale doesn't react, not beyond a sharp intake of breath. Crowley wishes he would, even if it meant raging, or blaming him. He can take anything but this dead-eyed attention to his words. He rushes through the part where he revealed his identity in one fell swoop, and he manages to describe the gunshot without faltering. His voice eventually breaks when he gets to the part where he ran away.

"I… I couldn't save him, and I ran-"

"It's not your fault." Aziraphale cuts him off without meeting his eyes. His expression now reminds Crowley of something he saw only once but will never forget; the empty soulless gaze of a woman that had been separated from her daemon. A cold shudder runs down his spine at the memory.

Aziraphale shoots up then, and Crowley instinctively follows the motion. Aziraphale’s daemon makes the first move towards the staircase. With a few spasmodic flaps of large black wings she's balancing on the handrail.

"Excuse me," Aziraphale utters, and he turns to follow her.

Crowley watches them ascend, unsure of what to do, _whether to follow_. Eve makes the decision for him. She dashes out of his arms and up the stairs after Eden with such fervor, as if she's trying to shift into something with wings like she could do when they were young. Crowley follows, long legs forgetting that they hurt as he takes two steps at a time.

"Aziraphale," Crowley calls out.

"Please, _dear boy,_ I need some space." Aziraphale has stopped at the top landing but he doesn't turn around. His stiff shoulders shake ever so slightly and his voice comes out thick.

"Aziraphale, please talk to me!"

Crowley knows how absurd his words are even as they leave his mouth. _How out of line._ But it doesn't stop his hand from darting out and closing around Aziraphale's wrist. He feels him tremble but he doesn't let go. He can't let go. 

The second it takes for Aziraphale to turn feels like millennia. Crowley is almost certain he will be faced with rage now. _I've gone too far._ But Aziraphale's face, while no longer blank, is twisted in grief rather than anger. Tears streak down his face freely, and his voice comes out choked.

"I killed him. I was afraid and I sent the poor innocent kid in my place and I got him killed. It's my fault, Crowley. If only I had gone instead..."

"Then it would had been you, you could not have prevented it, angel," Crowley says softly.

"That would be better," Aziraphale sobs. "It should have been me."

On the banister beside Aziraphale, Eden is tearing at her feathers in a frenzy. Eve slithers up towards her.

"Don't say that!!" Crowley's tone is more aggressive than he intended.

Eve wraps herself around Eden to physically stop her violent molt. _She always knows how to apply just the right pressure not to hurt._

As Aziraphale's strangled sobs intensify, Crowley takes the last few steps up to the landing. Tentatively he reaches up to brace Aziraphale, his grip firm but gentle on the shorter man's biceps. _Just the right pressure_.

"You- You have helped so many people, doing what you do. You can help so many more. You saved _me_."

Crowley feels the sting of oncoming tears and he wishes his glasses were still on his face, not folded on the reading table downstairs. Then Aziraphale looks up at him through long lashes decorated with the teardrops that are yet to fall, and he's glad for their absence. He holds his gaze, _such beautiful clear blue, even when it's rimmed with red._ And when Aziraphale's frame begins to shudder again and more moisture starts building in his eyes, Crowley closes the distance between them and wraps his arms around Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale leans into the embrace. He buries his face in Crowley's chest and his own hands come up and clutch at the fabric of Crowley's shirt. He is weeping in earnest now; loud sobs wrack his entire frame and he sniffles. Crowley ignores the moisture building up on the front of his shirt and the few errant tears that dare run down his own face. He rubs soothing circles on Aziraphale's back and whispers nonsensical reassurances, until Aziraphale's breathing slowly quiets down and settles into a less frantic pace.

"There you go," Crowley soothes. "'S gonna be alright."

"Hfmm," Aziraphale mumbles against his chest.

"Mmm," Crowley agrees. "Now, how about we spend the rest of the day getting absolutely sloshed, until we don't even remember why we feel upset, and we can contact head office tomorrow?"

Crowley's ways of dealing with his feelings are not the healthiest, and he is about to find a kindred spirit in Aziraphale who, with one last sniffle says, "Sounds like a plan."

* * *

Anathema knows exactly what they have to do the moment Newt explains about the acorn. _Of course it’s an acorn, what else would ‘oake’s false seed’ be?_ Agnes got it right as always, so she knows she needs to retrieve it. Newt however, won’t be going anywhere. He is injured, a fugitive, and clumsier than a blind bumblebee. She keeps that last part out of her explanation as to why he is to sit, have a nice cup of tea, and rest, while she goes out to look for it.

“I am an ecologist, picking up branches and acorns is what people expect me to do here,” she explains at his protest that they will catch her.

“A what?”

Anathema sighs. There really needs to be more public awareness of what she does and its importance.

“An environmental scientist. Like a biologist, but it has to do with how we affect the biosphere and the impact of human activity- are you trying to distract me?”

Newt gives her a sheepish grin. “I just really think it’s dangerous.”

“Don’t worry, I will have friends with me,” she says. “The same that rescued you.”

This seems to put him at ease. He settles down and Anathema, satisfied, walks out the door and locks it behind her. 

Adam had offered to pick her up in his little boat, but she had refused. Instead the kids would be meeting her near the boatshed, to _investigate._ Now she knows exactly what they will have to look for, and while the kids will find it less exciting than looking for bullet casings and bloodstains she knows it’s far more important.

As always, Adam’s little gang is there on time, ready for duty. There is no one else around at the moment, but she advises caution anyway. She explains what they are looking for in hushed tones, while she passes around little hempen bags and soft gloves. This is for show more than anything else, as is the research permit she keeps ready at hand.

The children spread out, gathering materials off the ground and occasionally running back to her to show her some interesting find. She takes the opportunity to educate, mission or no mission. Half an hour in a man and a woman dressed all in black approach the thicket by the boatshed. The man doesn’t match any of the children’s descriptions from the previous evening, but Anathema knows they’re here for the same reason she is, she can feel it in her gut.

They cast curious glances towards the children, and then they make a beeline for her. Anathema conjures up a warm smile.

“Hello, can I help you?” she asks.

The woman gives her an icy stare. Her centipede daemon scuttles across her front and leans out to peer at Apollon. Anathema knows not to judge on appearances, but those two send chills down her spine.

“Who are you?” She asks.

“Dr Device, I’m gathering samples for my environmental research, with a little help from my friends.” She holds out the permit “I got an agreement with the Parks Department.”

Neither of the dark-suited individuals reach for the papers. Anathema doesn’t bother to hide some of her unease, _what ordinary civilian wouldn’t start squirming at this point?_

“When do you think you will be done, Doctor?” The woman asks.

Anathema catches a glimpse of Pepper, frozen on her way to her and staring at the two figures.

“I am sure I will have everything I need soon,” Anathema says loudly for the kid’s benefit. She lets smiling confidence pour into her voice.

The woman with the centipede daemon nods, and her partner and her walk back up the path without another word. A few yards away and higher up they stop, facing Anathema and the children, _observing._ Anathema doesn’t like it one bit, for the kids’ sake more than her own. She wants to thank whatever higher power there is when Adam runs up to her, and while displaying the contents of his bag he whispers “I found an acorn that unscrews. It’s in my pocket.”

Her smile to him is genuine, and she gives him a little wink, then she cups her hands and shouts.

“Alright kids, how about we bring the samples home now and I make you all some tea for thanks?”

A general yell of agreement and childlike excitement follows as the gang gathers around her. When they start walking home she watches the strangers’ eyes slip off them and focus on the little shed at the water’s edge, and she smiles.

* * *

Aziraphale feels warm. He knows the soft haze of alcohol is partially to blame. The rest of it, he suspects even amidst the haze, has to do with the man across from him. He knows he is worried about something, _many somethings,_ but everything in his mind has faded to a tiny blimp somewhere in the back. Right now the world is concentrated into a single point, which is Crowley loosening his tie with fumbling hands. _And what lovely hands they are,_ supplies a little voice that has been growing louder since everything else in Aziraphale’s head started getting quieter.

Aziraphale lets his gaze linger, _well_ , _everywhere_ . Inhibitions are something reserved for sober Aziraphale, and Crowley… _Crowley is temptation on long, slender legs._ Aziraphale's mouth goes dry when Crowley pulls his tie off entirely and tosses it to the side, and he has to take another gulp of his wine when he loosens the two top buttons of his shirt. _A wine-red silky thing that must feel so good to run your fingers over-_

Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head to banish the inappropriate train of thought. He was looking for a distraction, but it's proving a bit too effective for comfort. He tries to pay attention to Crowley's words again.

"So they're actually two stars, close to each other, orbiting around a common barycenter. So close they seem like one source of light from afar!" says Crowley, a happy drunk little smile plastered on his face.

"Like a dance," Aziraphale says dreamily, "mmf do miss dancing."

"You dance, angel?" Crowley’s expression is inscrutable, but intensely focused on Aziraphale.

A less inebriated observer would notice that Crowley, too, was three sheets to the wind about two sheets ago, and he's still going strong.

"I… Yes, it's not that hard. I could show you," Aziraphale's treacherous tongue says without considering the consequences.

Crowley lights up, and then all too suddenly his face falls.

"'Sss no good. My legs are no good," he says miserably.

Aziraphale hates the pained look on Crowley's face. _It's not right,_ he thinks, _he should be smiling, it's so bright when he smiles._ That's what prompts him up on wobbly feet, extending a hand to Crowley.

"It's alright, I will lead and take it slow. And you can lean on me," he says, voice lowering.

"Alright then," Crowley almost whispers back. He takes Aziraphale's hand and lets himself be led away from the couch to a relatively open space. 

Aziraphale is almost undone by the single point of contact. He doesn't know how he's going to handle the next step. He lingers for a moment, wishing he could somehow magick himself sober.

"L-let's put on some music," he says, a mix of relief and disappointment hitting him as he lets go of Crowley's hand.

Soon he finds the soothing notes coming from his gramophone don't help much with the heat rushing to his face. But he made a promise. So, ever so gently, he approaches Crowley and shows him how to stand and where to place his hands. A few steps away, Eden is trying to mimic his gestures, unsure of how to deal with her partner’s lack of limbs. Eve, for her part, does her best to straighten up her neck and copy a dancer’s upright posture. They both break out into a fit of giggles when she wobbles face first to the floor, taking Eden down with her in a mess of scales and feathers. 

Watching their daemons' shenanigans out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale feels some of the tension leave his body, even if the closeness still makes his face flush and his breath stutter.

"Alright, you lean on me, and if it gets too much we slow down alright?" he says gently.

"Mmmsounds nice," Crowley's voice comes out thick and heady, not entirely because of the wine.

Aziraphale takes the first few tentative steps and Crowley follows his lead. Despite what he says he doesn't lack grace, and he's quick on his feet. They slowly fall into a rhythm, swaying together to the music, their steps in perfect sync.

Suddenly a soft gasp leaves Crowley’s lips, painfully close to a whimper, and he leans heavily on Aziraphale who immediately freezes.

"Do you wanna sit down, dear?" he asks, concerned.

"No. Jussst need to...lean a little," mumbles Crowley.

"Alright, of course," Aziraphale soothes.

Crowley doesn't really weigh much, and it's a warm comforting weight Aziraphale accepts gladly. They barely change spots now, their dancing closer to simply swaying interlocked. Crowley's eyes have fluttered closed, a sign of complete trust that makes something indescribable well up in Aziraphale's chest.

"Crowley, is… Is it going to be alright?" Aziraphale breaks the perfect, comfortable silence as clarity slowly trickles back into his head hand in hand with worry. His voice trembles. 

Crowley's eyes, _those enchanting amber eyes that look like molten gold_ _in the right light_ , snap open. He searches Aziraphale's face for a moment, and then their eyes lock. _So close, closer than ever before._

"We will be alright, angel."

Crowley gently tugs at Aziraphale's shirt. Aziraphale allows himself to be pulled closer until he's being held, head resting against Crowley's shoulder. And in that moment, a moment Aziraphale wishes he could stay in forever, he can believe it. He would believe anything.

* * *


	6. The Garden

Aziraphale wakes up on his couch at the crack of dawn, body stiff and head muddled. There's a source of warmth, much larger than his daemon, pressed rather close to his side and he's momentarily terrified to open his eyes. The feeling of his day clothes- or most of them anyway, since his top layers of vest and bowtie are acutely missing- assuages the worst of his worries. _He didn't cross any lines in his most drunk and vulnerable._

That said, the sight he's faced with brings a smile to his face. Crowley, very much like his daemon, assumes a variety of twisting complicated shapes when he sleeps. Currently the pretzel of a man is coiled at Aziraphale's side, head lolling on the back of the couch, mouth slightly parted for his soft hissing snores to escape. Aziraphale sees both their daemons are on the floor, and his eyes lock with Eden's. She's awake too, of course, but she's currently wrapped in layers of snake much more heavily than Aziraphale is in Crowley. She looks content to be there, and does her best to pretend she's not. Aziraphale wonders sometimes if all their morning energy goes to the daemon.

Still, with morning comes sobriety, and with that come all the worries that shatter the peace and quiet like a hail of stones in a glass house. _Newton, the CCD…_

He sighs heavily. _If there was a way to turn back time… Well, no time to dwell on fantasies_.

"We need to contact head office," he says to Eden.

"Let me just-" she mumbles, and then she painstakingly wiggles herself free of Crowley's daemon, just as Aziraphale untangles himself from Crowley. Somehow, the both of them remain asleep during the ordeal, merely shifting around a bit, and in Crowley's case, making a whiny little sound of protest.

Aziraphale definitely doesn't have to take a moment to deal with how endearing it sounds. And Eden, as she can attest, does not miss the feel of cool smooth scales against her feathers. The two of them have important business to attend to after all. The way it works being an Oakley Street operative, the higher ups contact you and not the other way around. It is for dire emergencies only that the channels to come into direct contact with head office even exist. Aziraphale reckons what they have in their hands more than qualifies.

He gets hastily dressed in last night's clothes and leaves the shop with purpose on his stride. What an outsider would observe, is this: A man in a rumpled beige jacket with a raven daemon on his shoulder makes his way from Soho to Camden, rushing despite the early hour. He rings the bell for a pawn shop, even though it is two hours before the opening time in the schedule posted at the door. An old man with a pronounced stoop in his stance opens the door, and the man with the raven daemon follows him to the counter, where he produces an old pocket watch, scratched and worn with wear. He hands it to the old man, and he receives no money for it. They talk for a moment, in hushed low voices, throwing cautious glances at the empty street outside through the storefront glass. Then the man in the cream coat leaves, making his way back to Soho. His route is completely different from the one he took to get there. He also stops at a bakery, and when he steps out carrying a box wrapped in paper his face looks a little brighter than before. Finally, he walks into the bookshop he left less than an hour ago and he locks the door behind him.

* * *

Crowley’s eyes flutter open as a warm hand shakes him awake, and an even warmer voice calls his name.

"Azsssiraphale," he mutters sleepily.

Then a jarring thought cuts through the morning haze: _why am I waking up here? Did I take advantage of his state last night?_ Crowley jolts backwards, and he sees Aziraphale pull his hand back and straighten up with a hurt look on his face. _Oh no, what did I do, what happened?_ Crowley runs a hand frantically through his hair as he looks around him for answers.

"Are.. Are you alright, Crowley?" asks Aziraphale. He's wringing his hands nervously now and there is a concerned look plastered on his face.

"I-I'm," Crolwey stammers. 

He is on that same couch he always seems to occupy these days, and he's decent down to his shoes still laced on. That's good. Eve slowly slithers up from the floor to his lap and gives him a confused look. _She wouldn't… Eve wouldn't let him go too far._

"Wha'ssss wrong?" Eve gives him a concerned look, while Aziraphale decides to busy himself with something in the kitchenette and skitters away.

"What did we... Last night?" Crowley asks, even as bits and pieces start coming back to him, some less reassuring than others.

The implications of his question aren't missed on her. She has never been the best of influences either; _it's fitting that it was a snake that invented temptation._

"We...drank and we danced and it was nice, and you slept on the couch again. You need to sssstretch your legs you know," she says slowly.

Dancing. Aziraphale holding him steady, closeness, warmth. Blue eyes shiny with fresh tears; are we going to be alright, Crowley?

He feels something tighten in his chest, but there's relief mixed in with the strange ache. "I didn't…"

"No, nothing to regret today," the daemon confirms. Alcohol doesn't have the same impact on her as it does a human, and her memories are crisp and certain.

Crowley relaxes at that, just for a moment. Then he realizes how his reaction must have looked to Aziraphale and he scrambles to his feet. The stiffness from a second night curled up on a couch turns into an acute throb as he burdens his legs with the entirety of his weight. He hisses a low string of curses as he falls back against the couch. 

"What did I tell you?" Eve chides.

Crowley doesn't argue. Slowly, he sets on massaging his sore leg muscles, from the thigh moving down. He momentarily wonders where his cane is; he knows he brought it to the bookshop, but it is the kind of place where putting something down might very well mean forever consigning it to entropy. Things get lost here, but this one thing is sorely needed.

Aziraphale chooses this moment to reappear. He's holding two mugs, and balancing a box of something that smells like happiness made butter and dough. Crowley feels his mouth water at the scent, and he tries to remember when was the last time he had something in his belly that wasn't wine.

"Are you… excuse my prying, but are your legs alright?" Aziraphale asks softly, as he places everything on the reading table.

"'S a bit stiff today is all. Because of the humidity," Crowley replies, only half lying. "That's what hit me earlier," he adds, jumping at the opportunity to excuse his reaction.

"Oh, is there anything I can do to help?" Aziraphale offers, expression painfully earnest.

Crowley straightens up, satisfied with his ministrations and feeling the muscles in his legs relax. "You can share whatever is in that box," he says with a grin.

Aziraphale smiles, and he hands Crowley one of the two mugs, before proffering the box which turns out to be filled with- 

"What are those?" Crowley asks, even as he reaches for one of the powdered pastries.

"Croissants shaped like donuts," beams Aziraphale.

Crowley raises an eyebrow.

"They're nice, they're filled with raspberry jam," Aziraphale adds defensively.

"Why aren't they simply shaped like croissants?"

"Has anyone told you you ask too many questions?" Aziraphale sniffs primly. 

Crowley could swear Aziraphale is in fact stifling a smile behind his mug. He stares, transfixed by the way Aziraphale's eyes flutter closed in contentment after he takes the first bite of his pastry. A soft sigh escapes him as he swallows, and his tongue darts out to chase the remnants of crumbs and powdered sugar on his lips. Crowley's eyes shamelessly follow the motion, safely hidden behind his glasses. There's a slow blooming heat spreading from his chest vaguely downwards, and Crowley thinks he might still be drunk.

"Oh!" Aziraphale exclaims suddenly, his soft, pleased expression turning into something grim and urgent, mouth turned slightly downwards. 

The gravity of it pulls Crowley out of his reverie more effectively than a bucket of ice water would. The heat in his gut changes course and creeps up towards his face in a display of shame. How can he be thinking like that right now? With everything that's happened, with how terrible Aziraphale must feel. He really is a wretched-

"I contacted Oakley Street." Aziraphale's voice interrupts Crowley's spiraling thoughts. "Now, well, there's nothing to do but to wait."

"Yes, good," Crowley stammers.

There's a long moment of silence, and then Aziraphale clears his throat. "Well, I have- I have stuff to do, bookshop stuff, yes."

"Of course," Crowley says way too readily. "Yes, go ahead."

Aziraphale stands awkwardly for a moment, before he unceremoniously shuffles towards the front.

Once he's out of earshot, Crowley lets out a sigh as the charged air becomes breathable once again, but also, so much colder than a moment ago.

* * *

Aziraphale wouldn't describe himself as fidgety. Yet, as the hours wear on he feels the restlessness build like anbaricity under his skin. And, he notices early on, his own agitation doesn't hold a candle to Crowley's. He is doing his best to hide it, stay out of Aziraphale's way and appear calm. He's about as calm as a lion in an iron cage.

Even from a different room, Aziraphale can feel Crowley's nervous energy coming off in waves, feeding his own anxiety in a vicious loop. _And he cannot blame the poor man. He wishes he could help him feel better, but they're both powerless._

So he ploughs on with mind numbing tasks that have already been put off for too long. Cataloguing, tidying, blessed Heavens if things continue this way he might even start creating an actual classification system _._ The solution to both his and Crowley's plight comes, as is often the case in Aziraphale's opinion, in the form of a book. His eyes scan mindlessly over the titles of the books he shelfs, quickly putting each away and grabbing the next one, but something makes him linger over a botany tome. 

“Plants?” asks Eden, peering at it.

“Crowley,” is all Aziraphale replies.

“Oh! Oh, I see. We could try that.”

Needing no further prompting, Aziraphale leaves the book face down on the shelf and marches towards the back room where Crowley is.

“Crowley I was just thinking, that is, if it’s not too much of a bother…” Aziraphale’s voice trails off when the other man springs up from his seat and beams up at him.

“Yes, anything, let’s go.” Crowley proclaims.

Aziraphale fights the urge to laugh. “You don’t know what I was going to ask,” he points out.

“Doesn’t matter, unless you were going to ask me to sit down and be still, then ‘s a no from me.” Crowley already sounds cheerful at the mere prospect of something to occupy him, which makes Aziraphale suddenly feel very confident about his plan. He lets a smile play on his lips before his next words.

“As a matter of fact, I was hoping you could help me with the garden, I’m afraid it’s in quite a dreadful state.”

Crowley’s face lights up something fierce, and even his daemon starts uncoiling herself to peer curiously up at Aziraphale, who drinks the reaction in, smile widening. It’s riding the high of it that prompts Aziraphale to add: “After all you really sound so good at it.”

Whatever reply Crowley was about to give gets replaced by a strangled assortment of vowels. Aziraphale feels ridiculously pleased with himself when he notices a dusting of soft pink bloom over Crowley’s fine cheekbones. But the feeling soon dissipates when he becomes aware of a familiar treacherous heat creeping up his own face. He turns towards the door a bit abruptly, and mutters, “Alright, follow me.”

“Wait, how can you even have a garden?” Crowley asks, even as he falls into step behind Aziraphale.

“Just through here,” says Aziraphale.

They reach the staircase leading up to his little apartment over the shop, and as he leads Crowley up the steps he becomes acutely self-aware of the state of his flat above. It may not be nearly as cluttered or chaotic as the shop, but Aziraphale finds himself flushing with embarrassment when they enter the apartment to find an assortment of old mugs and even a few articles of clothing covering every surface that hadn't been overtaken by what could only be described as the shop downstairs spilling over as it reached maximum capacity. _Not only I'm taking Crowley up to my living space_ , Aziraphale thinks, _but he will surely think him a slob at the display._

Crowley makes no comment as Aziraphale hurriedly takes them further in, to the winding metal staircase that leads to the roof. Aziraphale hurriedly climbs it with Crowley at his heel, and on the top landing he stops in front of a metal door to fumble around his pockets for a key, He unlocks after a moment.

The door to the rooftop garden creaks accusingly as Aziraphale pushes it open. He doesn't come up here nearly as often as he should, and momentarily he wonders whether there will even be enough of a garden left for Crowley to rescue. Aziraphale leans against the doorframe and watches him saunter towards the flower beds. Crowley stops, hands on his hips, and inspects the greenery, cocking his head to the side, reaching out to brush wilted yellowed leaves between his fingers. A world-weary sigh escapes his lips, and it makes Aziraphale’s face fall.

"Oh dear, it's too bad isn't it?”

“It’ssss…” Crowley trails off as he turns to look at Aziraphale. He seems to consider something before he continues. “Not that bad really, but it needs a bit of work.”

He offers a small smile, and his expression turns involuntarily more approving as he takes in the rest of the rooftop terrace. Aziraphale can't help but be pleased as he sees the appreciative look on his friend's face as he observes the lattice panels that provide a second layer of protection from prying eyes besides the once-lush greenery around the edges of the terrace, on all sides but the front. There are more raised flowerbeds scattered around, creating a mini-labyrinth of light wood and colourful greenery. In the centre of it there is an open space, currently inhabited by a round metal table, white paint cracking and peeling off, its surface covered in dust and a few errant leaves. Next to it there are two matching chairs that haven’t fared much better.

Still, Crowley’s face is that of someone seeing potential, rather than ruin. Aziraphale feels his heart swell at the approval that he didn’t even know he cared for. _That he shouldn’t care for in the first place, thank you very much._

“I have gardening stuff, I don’t know if they will be sufficient or...”

“I’ll make do,” Crowley assures, waving a dismissing hand.

Aziraphale leads Crowley to the tiny gardening shed- more of a cupboard really- and lets him pick out what he needs, before helping him carry everything towards the flowerbeds. Aziraphale doesn’t mean to linger too long. He has a shop to run, after all. But he pauses in the doorway, even after Crowley assures him he has everything he needs and he can go back downstairs. He watches, transfixed as Crowley removes his waistcoat and drapes it over the back of one of the chairs before he starts rolling up his sleeves to reveal strong forearms above delicate wrists. He then proceeds to undo the top two buttons of his shirt. Every inch of pale skin bared draws Aziraphale in further, and he feels his throat start to go dry.

 _Not the time,_ Aziraphale reminds himself. D _ear lord, I have more self-control than this!_

"Weren't you going to the bookshop?" Crowley interrupts Aziraphale's thoughts as soon as he notices him lingering.

"I- Oh, no, what if you need help?" Aziraphale rasps. He clears his throat and continues on, with more conviction than before. "Yes, least I can do is be around, it's my garden you're fixing after all."

"Suit yourself, angel, if it doesn’t bore you," says Crowley and his lips quirk up as if the two of them share a secret. It makes Aziraphale's knees almost wobble as he throws himself onto one of the rusted veranda chairs.

Crowley doesn't waste any more time before he gets to work while his daemon finds a particularly sunny spot to bask. It doesn't take long for Aziraphale to realize he could spend eternity watching Crowley work and never get bored. He seems to be well and truly in his element here, among the greenery, under the open sky. There is a confidence in his step and a fluidity to his every motion that has an intoxicating effect on Aziraphale. He follows Crowley's hands with his eyes with all the intensity of a child looking to unveil a conjuror's trick. Crowley has opted out of the gardening gloves Aziraphale had provided, which makes sense with the way he works. He is constantly feeling something with the tips of his fingers, whether it's checking the humidity in the soil or examining the texture of the foliage.

It makes the whole thing feel intimate, as if Aziraphale is intruding with his presence. But then Crowley’s eyes meet his and before Aziraphale can even conjure up an excuse for staring he smiles at him, and Aziraphale is certain he’s going to turn into a puddle of goo right there and then. He returns the smile, offers up a little wave, which makes Crowley’s grin broaden. He’d admonish himself for acting all silly, but surely it’s worth it for a smile like that.

Eden silently observes him the whole while, but her features look calm. Calmer than when they had been confined in the shop, hearing Crowley’s incessant pacing from the backroom.

“You really got it bad, don’t you?” There is no admonishment in her voice. She might be his voice or reason, but she’s not the judge of him.

Aziraphale makes a non-committal sound. “It’s not the time for this,” he mumbles sadly.

“When is it if you really think about it?” replies the daemon wistfully. 

Aziraphale knows she’s not any more worldly than he is, and hardly wiser. _But she’s bound to have a different perspective_ , he figures, _always seeing things laid out below her from the sky_ . He gives consideration to her words. Eventually he leans closer to where she’s perched on the table, almost conspiratorially to whisper: “Even if we are to consider… _this._ He wouldn’t, I mean, he’s here because he has no other option. Only until Oakley Street contacts us, and relocates him I assume.” 

“You know I wouldn’t tell you to rush anything,” Eden whispers back. “But… It’s not so bad to dare to hope, to take things slow.”

That much is something Aziraphale can accept, and the mere hint of possibility lifts his spirits. He may be untethered with no plan and no footing with everything else, but this one little thing feels like something he can hold on to, something he can control. In that respect, he might need Crowley more than Crowley needs him right now, despite not being the one who’s on the run. And he finds that he doesn’t really mind.

“Aziraphale I am replanting the- oh, I’m sorry to startle you.” Crowley holds his hands up and takes a step back.

Aziraphale is somewhat rattled at how he failed to notice Crowley approach until the point that Crowley’s voice made him jump from his chair and almost yelp. He can tell by the heat on his face that his embarrassment has decided to make itself evident.

“I- no, it’s hardly your fault I got lost in thought, dear.” He stammers. Then, before Crowley has the chance to get a word in edgewise he claps his hands together and exclaims: “You have been working really hard, I could have at least offered you something to drink. How rude of me. Does tea sound good?”

“Hng,” says Crowley, nodding a distracted affirmative.

“Good lad,” Aziraphale says, awkwardly patting Crowley’s upper arm, and then he’s off, pushing through the terrace door and trying to hide his reddening face.

“That was a thing,” Crowley’s incredulous voice barely carries down the stairwell, making Aziraphale’s flush deepen and his descent hasten.

“That was a thing indeed,” Eden says unhelpfully, fluttering down to rest on his shoulder as he shuffles into the privacy of his apartment.

* * *

Crowley loves the roof garden. Or rather, he loves the challenge it provides. He gets to work with his hands, to get lost in the scent of chlorophyll and wet earth. The fact that he also gets to do something nice for Aziraphale is just an added bonus. One that adds surges of warmth to the sheer comfort the work provides. Every time he turns to see Aziraphale still sitting there, watching him, he gets a thrill of appreciation. And when Aziraphale returns after the endearingly awkward -Crowley has decided- exchange with a ridiculous tartan thermos full of warm tea for him, Crowley thinks the anbaricity sparkling in his core could power the entirety of Soho.

"Thanks, angel," he says, restraining the urge to grin like a maniac, but not the one to let the nickname slip.

It flusters Aziraphale ever so gently, and Crowley can't quite resist the temptation of making that happen. Seeing someone so beautiful, so _good,_ get flustered on account of him is intoxicating. He will chastise himself for it later, when he tosses and turns at night as dull pain throbs through his legs, and Eve will tell him not to be so hard on himself. _One snake comforting another,_ but he won't tell her that, he would never be so cruel.

The next morning is crisp and sunny. After accompanying Aziraphale for breakfast upstairs, in what he notes as being a much tidier flat than it was yesterday- _that explains the footsteps and noise coming from upstairs last night-_ Crowley returns to the garden. This time Aziraphale doesn't join him, he has a shop to run after all. Crowley isn't sure if he relies on what he gets from Oakley Street, or if he has some other source of income, but he is pretty certain selling books is not how Aziraphale gets by. He doesn't ask though, it feels too much like prying, and he doesn't want to risk ruining their conversations or their easy moments together. He's tired of playing spy, as it were.

Aziraphale still swings by, a reluctant smile on his face and some sort of sustenance balanced in his arms. He always offers to help and praises Crowley's work despite being so clearly oblivious to all botanical matters. It makes Crowley feel like he's glowing from the inside out and he needs to avert his gaze every time, even with his shades safely on. He also offers to help, and Crowley makes sure to be gentle when he turns the help down; the last thing he would want to do is hurt his friend. _Is that word even right?_ It must be, despite their short acquaintance, and despite certain other pesky feelings that keep rearing their head.

"'S no good right now," he mutters, as he pours a fresh layer of damp soil into one of the flower beds.

"What?" Eve raises her head from atop her coiled body and looks up to Crowley from her patch of sun-warmed earth and leaves. She ignores most of his muttering while he works, but she can tell this is something else.

He groans in response, and she slithers over with a sigh. "What's no good, Anthony?"

Despite the warmth in her voice, sometimes she sounds suspiciously like a prodding school teacher. Crowley sighs and casts a glance to the terrace door, as if Aziraphale might still be standing there, before replying.

"Aziraphale. You know, pushing him and the like," he mumbles.

"We wouldn't _push_ him," she says indignantly.

Crowley sighs again, stops himself from running a soiled hand through his hair. "He's… He's doing us such a kindness, and he's already taking a great risk, and with everything going on I can't be thinking…" He starts pacing, bag of soil discarded next to the raised flower bed.

"I mean he's so…" Crowley doesn't know how to finish the sentence. Words were never his strong suit.

"He's lonely," says Eve, her voice small.

"We… have that in common, don't we?" Crowley mutters once he processes her words. "I mean I have you, we don't need-"

"Humans need other humans," Eve cuts him off. "And daemons need other daemons too, and that's alright."

Crowley stills. "What if he doesn't want this." He's whispering now. "What if he regrets it once he gets close?"

Eve slithers towards him, raises herself until he offers a hand for her to wrap around. She climbs all the way to wrap around his shoulders; a weighted mantle draping him in whatever measure of security she can provide.

"Even if that were to happen-" Eve begins to say, before she suddenly grows silent and turns towards the door.

Crowley can hear it too now that he’s paying attention: hurried footsteps. But what concerns him is that there is more than one pair of them, ringing out on the metal steps. His breath catches as he turns to face the door just as it creaks open. Aziraphale steps out first, his face drawn in concern and something almost like guilt.

"Crowley, it's-"

Aziraphale is interrupted by the person who emerges behind him stepping forward, nearly pushing him out of the way. Even if Crowley didn't recognise the austere grey pantsuit, or the severe face framed by the few locks escaping the newcomer's tight updo, he would be hard pressed not to recognise the mountain lion daemon that stalks behind her, hunched low and threatening even in broad daylight. 

"Lady Michael," Crowley drawls in lieu of a proper greeting.

"Mr Crowley," she responds icily with a slight nod. "Mr Fell has explained your situation, but we would very much like to hear your recounting of events."

She turns, gesturing towards the door that's hanging open, dark and foreboding. It’s very much not an invitation. "Time to leave the garden, don't you think?"

* * *


	7. The Book And The Compass

Crowley doesn't recognize the other Oakley Street woman waiting for them downstairs. At first glance she seems less threatening than Michael, the way her warm brown skin almost glows gold where the sunlight hits, her kestrel daemon perched on her shoulder and basking. That is until her eyes fall on Crowley, dark and stormy, taking everything in with all the focus of a bird of prey. Michael doesn't introduce her, she merely gives Aziraphale an expectant sort of look.

"Uh- Come this way, we can talk in the back room," Aziraphale says unhappily.

Crowley understands the sentiment, because he feels the intrusion of the two austere women in Aziraphale's inner sanctum like a splinter under his skin. He has been here for so little time, he could be considered an intruder himself, but it still feels fundamentally wrong. Maybe it's the way Michael moves a blanket out of the way pinched between her thumb and forefinger before sitting on his- on the couch. Maybe it's the way Aziraphale's eyes dart around the room, even as he stays terribly still. There's discomfort written on the lines of his face that now appear deeper, making him look beyond his years. Or perhaps making him look his years, Crowley never asked, he only assumed.

"Mr Fell, there is no reason for you to linger if you are still in agreement," Michael says.

Crowley realizes, the moment those words are spoken, that this whole time he’d been reading the subtlest of changes in Aziraphale’s face and posture, imperceptible things that he had taught himself to see. It becomes clear in the face of the unrestrained, open fear written across his features now. Fear that transfers to Crowley, planting its icy tendrils firmly into the base of his skull and seeping out in all directions. Surely, their two superiors must notice too, but neither woman says anything. Aziraphale doesn’t say anything for a long moment either, seemingly unable to summon the words.

“In agreement to what?” demands Crowley, even as the little voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Eve says ‘ _not your businesss’._

Michael regards him with an unimpressed quirk of her eyebrow, and for a moment Crowley thinks she will not respond. “Since _you_ compromised yourself, Mr Crowley, we have had to look into other options for gathering inside information, namely-”

“My family,” Aziraphale cuts in. "Well, estranged family, I suppose."

"The Fells are not involved directly in the CCD itself, but the eldest son is a bishop and the youngest is following his father's footsteps towards one day becoming chairman for The Committee for the Propagation of the True Faith," explains the other woman, an edge of impatience in her voice.

"And then there's me," mutters Aziraphale.

Crowley finds himself reeling with the information thrown at him. Aziraphale's own family - _estranged, he'd said-_ are all members of the Holy Church and the Magisterium. And Aziraphale somehow ended up as a bookseller who works for Oakley Street. And now he's being sent, from the looks of it, inside the dragon's den, and why? Because Crowley fucked up, gave himself away. Michael more than implied it, and Crowley's chest is suddenly way too tight.

"This is… he can't.. " he hears himself and knows it's nonsense. Even if he can find the oxygen to form words, nothing he says will help.

"I agreed to it," Aziraphale says softly. He's stepping closer to Crowley, concern replacing the fear in his features, and Crowley can't take it so he looks away.

"Listen, Crowley." Aziraphale places a gentle hand on his forearm, and Crowley shudders at the warmth. 

"They… They say there is a chance I can help, more than I do by sitting here and passing messages along. And it's my family, perhaps I would need to go back, even without doing it as a spy."

Crowley finally looks up at Aziraphale, into his eyes full of both fear and fierce determination; a storm of clashing things set before the bluest of skies. He swallows hard, commands his fingertips to stop shaking. He wishes they were alone, the scrutiny of the two women crawls across his spine like a burning itch.

"Alright, angel," he says softly, as if they were alone. "I will be here when you return, since I am now officially an unemployed ex spy." 

He cracks a small grin, and Aziraphale smiles even as he rolls his eyes. Then he steps back, and the moment is over, replaced by the merciless waves of reality crashing into their little shore.

"We shall be off then, Ms Uriel?" Aziraphale says, a thin veil of bravado that Crowley can see right through covering his voice.

The dark skinned woman - _Ms Uriel_ \- nods and follows Aziraphale out. Crowley's eyes follow them through the front window until they enter what looks like a nondescript cab with tinted windows and the door slams shut behind them.

"Now, Mr. Crowley, about what happened at Hyde Park."

* * *

The sound of the car door slamming rings in Aziraphale’s ears, and his mind conjures the image of a trapdoor crashing open under his feet, letting him plummet just for a second before the noose around his neck grows taut. He shakes his head, _this is no time for dramatics,_ and if he can help it he won’t let it show just how affected he is.

He clears his throat and turns to the woman on the seat next to his just as the driver brings the engine to life. 

"So, what am I to say exactly, then, showing up all of a sudden after five years?" Aziraphale's voice sounds more irritable than anything. More irritable than he'd normally allow, and he's glad for it.

"As we've told you, your father-"

"Is sick, yes. Only they didn't tell me," Aziraphale snaps.

He was the one to walk away, but he didn't so much burn those bridges as _close them until further notice,_ which still left plenty of space for betrayal to take root. And that aside, even if his brothers had contacted him he would still not know how to feel about it. At the moment he isn't sure whether the whole spying business is an added worry or a blessing amidst it all.

"Is there a point to this, Mr Fell?"

"How will it not look suspicious, me showing up anyway?" Aziraphale tries to sound even, unaffected.

She sighs wearily, probably catches herself just short of rolling her eyes at him. "It wouldn't be a stretch to assume you still keep in touch with various scholarly circles, and it's no secret they gossip like old hens."

Aziraphale nods, not entirely satisfied but not caring to push it further.

"Now let's get to the reason we need you to spy for us," she says, pulling a briefcase from under the seat in front of her. "It concerns an _alethiometer,_ in the university of Bologna _."_

Aziraphale cannot help a sharp inhale at the word. He didn't expect another one of his past failings to come and slap him in the face, not in the same day. His voice wobbles as he interjects, "I don't think I could be of much help-"

"We don't need you to read it for us, but rather help us make sure the Magisterium doesn't get its hands on it." She unclasps the briefcase and quirks an eyebrow at him, taking in his new wave of discomfort. She seems to consider something, then she heaves another sigh.

"You need to get your bloody act together, Fell." Somehow, despite the bluntness of her words, it's the least cruel she has sounded all day. Aziraphale's eyes snap up to hers, and he's surprised at what he finds there. There’s a furrow to her brow that could almost be called gentle, a concern that seems to have appeared out of the blue.

"Listen I… I don't understand why they picked _you_ for this. Your family, the alethiometer, every reason given for why you should do it seems to me like a reason why you shouldn't. But you cannot afford to get emotional and slip, not even once. The enemy doesn't give you a pass because it's your first time."

 _The enemy._ Aziraphale swallows down whatever contradicting words threaten to spill out of his mouth next. It doesn't matter that it’s his family, he knows better than anyone what _they_ are like, and besides her warning is genuine. He notices she has pulled a slim folder out of the briefcase, and he eyes it curiously.

"This is what you need to know about the situation over there, and the information we need you to retrieve," she says, thrusting it towards him. "Try to retain everything."

For once, as he accepts the folder, Aziraphale breathes easy because _that_ he can do.

* * *

Anathema huffs in frustration and lets her pencil slip from her grip. It lands on the stacks of paper strewn about all over her desk with a soft rustling sound. She doesn’t need to turn to know her houseguest’s eyes are on her, a question barely hanging on to his lips. And really, she can’t entirely blame him. It had taken mere moments after meeting him -or at least after the point in their unorthodox acquaintance she had decided to assign as the moment of their meeting- for Anathema to realize Newt was, in his very core, a follower. The subsequent days, however, revealed that he's the kind of follower that asks a lot of questions. The kind of person that has a spark in his eye, and a thirst to know how the world around him works. Anathema would find it endearing if she had the time for it. As it is, the sands keep slipping relentlessly through her fingers, and there's almost no progress. She buries her face in her palms.

"Maybe I could...help you put these papers in order?" Newt suggests meekly. "If you told me what you're searching for, maybe I could help."

Anathema turns around in her chair and finally faces him. He's hovering in the doorway, leaning a bit on his non-injured side. His daemon is peeking out of his shirt pocket, and they're both regarding her with the same mousy expression. It startles a small laugh out of her which turns into a sigh. His expression falls, and suddenly Anathema feels guilty; she never meant to be cruel to him.

"Listen, it's… it's a lot to explain, there is no time. I have to…" Anathema turns to gesture wildly at the mess of notes and cards that is her desk. When she fails to conjure the right words, she sighs and leans forward on it until her forehead connects with the paper-littered surface.

She hears Newt's footsteps approaching and circling around the desk even as he starts speaking again: "It's just, it's been days, and you have been telling me I need rest but I'm plenty rested now, and if you could tell me what's going on, two heads are better than one some-"

Anathema feels a little surge of satisfaction thinking it’s her patented I'm-busy-glare that makes him trail off.

"You got a little something…" Newt mutters, pointing vaguely northwards of her nose.

Anathema gives a little upward glance and then plucks the card that decided to abandon its pile and stick to her forehead. It's not a conscious choice to flip the card around and read the text carefully written on it.

 _Prophecy #3419_ _And thus I say to thee, verrily mine descendant, whence once trippeth upon thou meadow mouce follow in peace, and aide shalt be receifth._

Anathema’s eyes lift from the innocuous looking little card to Newt’s face, and then they slide down to his little daemon who’s sniffing the air and looking around with her tiny beady eyes.

“Very subtle, Agnes,” she mutters into the air.

"Who-"

"Alright, here's what's happening," Anathema says, and watches as Newt almost scrambles to attention the moment the words leave her lips.

"These cards have prophecies written on them, transcribed by my family from a book called 'The Nice And Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch'. It's the only composed book of prophecies where every single one is true." 

"I thought witches didn't write down their prophecies. And…" Newts eyes travel across the table, taking in the sheer number of cards among Anathema's own notes. "I didn't know one witch could write so many."

"They're not typical prophecies," Anathema explains, a hint of caution seeping in her voice, "Most of them aren't about events of cosmic importance, but rather pointers for her family."

"Her family?" Newt asks.

"Her descendants," Anathema replies. "My family."

Newt nods in understanding through the first bit of her statement, and Anathema can pinpoint the exact moment the information sinks in by the widening of his eyes.

"Wait, so are you…" Newt babbles.

"A witch? Only a little." Anathema says matter of factly. "Agnes only had a male child," she elaborates after a moment, "so I am human, but the women of the family always had a bit of, let's say heightened intuition. I guess we're not so much witches as professional witch descendants, deciphering Agnes' prophecies, cataloguing them."

"You said most of them aren't that important," Newt points out, "so why have you been working so feverishly now?"

Anathema is pleasantly surprised by Newt foregoing most of the expected questions and asking the right ones instead. "Most of them aren't, but, well, we're reaching the end of the book now. I always knew there was something important _I_ had to do, but…"

"You can't figure out what it is?" Newt guesses.

Anathema nods miserably. "There are new prophecies in the North, about forces threatening the very universe, about a child that's to play a huge part in saving it. The thing is, we aren't to be a part of this, but there's things we need to do to… set the stage, I think. And we have known for way longer than any of those new prophecies started to emerge, but Agnes can be hard to decipher in the best of times and…"

Anathema's shoulders slump with the weight of what feels like the world settling over them. _And it might as well be_ , she thinks. _Being the child of prophecy is all nice and neat, but no one asks what it takes to be the goddamn stage crew._

Newt drags a chair towards her desk, the legs scraping across the wooden floor with teeth-chattering intensity. Anathema shudders and looks up, to watch him pull it up on the side of the desk to her left and settle himself on it. His daemon scampers out of his pocket and down his arm to the desk, mindful of avoiding Anathema's hands.

"I may end up being nothing more than a wall to bounce ideas off, but I will try to help," Newt says softly.

Despite herself, Anathema feels the familiar warmth of hope bloom in her chest in wisps and tendrils. She smiles at Newt, a smile full of her guarded but very much genuine gratitude.

"Thank you. Let's get to work then."

* * *

"Since you seem satisfied-”

“Satisfied is the furthest from what I am right now, Mr Crowley,” Michael interrupts harshly.

Crowley merely shrugs. “What is the business with Fell?” He wears apathy like an armour, drapes it over his words for good measure. _I don’t care about this, I am merely curious._

Michael eyes him for a long time, longer than it’s comfortable. Her daemon, too, levels his predatory feline stare at him, not Eve. “You aren’t going to let this go, are you?” she finally says.

Crowley can recognize when his bluff has been called, so he chirps out an off-puttingly cheerful affirmative. He pushes his glasses on top of his head; it could be an off-handed motion, if he did not meet Michael’s sharp gaze, which he holds defiantly.

“Alright. Do you know what an alethiometer is, Mr Crowley?” Michael’s condescending tone suggests she already knows the answer to her question. Oakley Street didn’t exactly pick Crowley up at a college campus, after all.

“Instrument that tells the truth,” Crowley says simply. “There are few left in the world, all locked up in dusty colleges.”

Michael is taken aback for a moment which Crowley savours. He allows a serpentine sort of smile to cross his features. In truth, he _did_ hear about it from a scholar, but the concept had instantly fascinated him.

“And in Geneva,” Michael says after a moment, “the Magisterium has one of six existing alethiometers.”

“Funny that,” says Crowley. “You’d think it would be everything they stand against, gift of knowledge, original sin, all that.”

“They _did_ burn their creator at the stake,” Michael points out. “They recognized the danger to them posed by Pavel Khunrath’s inventions, but they weren’t as foolish as to disregard their usefulness. That’s why they try to extend their influence to colleges and universities; alethiometer or not knowledge is power.”

Despite himself, Crowley finds himself leaning forward, enraptured by Michael’s words. “They certainly have the scholars quivering in their robes,” he says, scowling.

“And yet, with their own instrument in Geneva they can hardly bully the truly neutral college administrators into putting their own research aside to do readings for the Magisterium, not without being seen as violating scholastic sanctuary.”

“Why would they need to? As you said they have their own. Why don’t they do more with it? It can’t take too much time to turn a few dials.”

Michael shakes her head. “It’s the interpretation that can take weeks, but even if the dials are just sitting there waiting to be turned, very few people are able to learn to read those instruments. Didn’t Mr Fell explain this part?”

It’s Crowley’s turn to be taken aback. _How is Aziraphale related to this? Does she assume he was the one to talk about the instruments to Crowley, as if he is the only scholar Crowley has ever crossed paths with?_

She tilts her head, appraising his expression, drinking in his confusion like a predator drawing out the moment of the kill. “Oh, you see your… _friend_ was to become an alethiometrist. Word has it it was his own ambition, one that so happened to please his family too. Only, he couldn’t cut it. His family wasn’t particularly loathe to cut him loose after this failure, when ideological differences led him to, ah, _distance himself,_ hole up here, hoarding tomes and writing dry theological dissertations.”

Even as he drinks in the information, only a part of him feeling guilty he gets to hear it behind Aziraphale’s back, Crowley still feels anger boil in his chest at the condescending way she speaks about Aziraphale. The way she paints him like a failure, someone to be pitied, talked about in hushed voices coming from behind ostentatiously placed palms. He realizes he’s starting to tighten his grip on the armrests of his armchair, while Eve is instinctively doing the same around his leg and he's certain it doesn’t escape Michael’s sharp gaze.

"Anyhow, it's the youngest Fell that's the important one here," Michael says, suddenly impeccably business-like. 

Crowley finds himself more than a little confused, unable to see the connections between alethiometers and scholastic neutrality to Aziraphale's family. And he can recognize how he's being intentionally left to stumble in the dark.

"Important how?" He snaps.

"As we've mentioned, Gabriel Fell is part of The Committee for the Propagation of the True Fai-"

"Yes, yes, propaganda central." Crowley interrupts irritably.

"They are involved in more than simple propaganda these days, specifically in the Magisterium's influence in colleges."

Some of the cogs finally start to click in place, and the moment the first one starts spinning Crowley can practically see the big picture unfold.

"Where they have the alethiometers that they desperately want to command," he mutters.

"Specifically Bologna," says Michael. "Geneva has been pushing for ages, but the current administration remained neutral. Which allows us to have our own reader within the university, aside from keeping the Magisterium away from the instrument."

Crowley takes a moment to store all the information in neat little boxes in his head to easily retrieve later; a spy trick he has painstakingly developed rather than having always possessed it. 

"And the youngest Fell is working towards changing that," he finally says.

“We don’t have enough information about what they’re planning to do in Bologna,” she assents, “and Mr Fell might just be our key to it.”

Crowley turns the last statement over in his head, trying to decide what that entails for his new friend. _Aziraphale gets a chance to do something important and earn the higher up's favour,_ is what it has been sold as. _Aziraphale gets thrust into a dangerous game he doesn't even know how to play,_ Crowley's less optimistic mind supplies.

"Sounds like a rather ambitious plan," he says instead, faking disaffection, "especially for someone who hasn't done this before."

Michael smiles at Crowley, a crooked imitation of gentle and understanding that chills him down to the bone. _She'd ace being CCD._ The thought pops in Crowley's head unprompted and causes him to visibly shudder.

"That's where you come in, Mr Crowley. Do you think I've been taking so much of my invaluable time just to indulge you?"

Crowley doesn't reply, but his glare could freeze Hell over. He suspects it's rather pointless here, nothing left for _him_ to freeze.

"You were one of our best spies, Mr Crowley, which makes it all the worse that you chose now to blow it all to pieces. But at the very least you can share your expertise. You are to be Mr Fell's handler."

"I what?" Crowley lets out before he can restrain himself. He isn't entirely sure where his incredulity even comes from.

"If you are to refuse, in your current position, I expect a very good reason why, or an exponentially better idea," warns Michael, with no pretense of doing otherwise. Her daemon, perched at her feet and seemingly napping this whole time, begins to rouse and fixes one feline eye on him.

"None whatsoever. 'S good, yeah."

"We will stay in daily contact, and I expect you to push Mr Fell to results sooner rather than later. He definitely doesn't lack the intellect for it, and I hope he will turn out to be stronger than he initially seems. He also has more bargaining chips in his disposal than he might realize right now."

* * *

The ride towards his family's estate feels both like an eternity and a minute, even though Aziraphale is well aware it's under one hour. He reads and memorizes the mission folder in well under that, and once he has he misses the distraction it provided. He knows a great deal more now than when they left the bookshop, about the politics in the university of Bologna, and about the kind of work Gabriel does for the Magisterium. He still doesn't have any more of a clue as to how to proceed, and of course he didn't expect a mission file to tell him how to _feel,_ but it would have been nevertheless appreciated.

Aziraphale feels his heart catch in his throat when the car takes the secluded little turn in the road leading up to Fell Manor; he's sure he can hear it beating there, cutting off his air flow with every pump. 

The car stops, quite a ways away from the gate, and Aziraphale feels a tentative hand on his bicep. Ms Uriel looks about as uncomfortable as he feels, which, ironically, gives him a little bit of comfort.

"You don't have to think of the mission today," she says. "It's only first contact, and thankfully looking nervous will be expected, so…" She trails off for a moment, takes a deep breath and continues: "Just establish contact, make it clear you will be coming around again, reconnecting."

Aziraphale nods vigorously along with her words, desperate for anything close to an instruction, even as part of him recoils and rebels against his eagerness to have orders to follow. _It's the side of me bred in this place,_ he thinks bitterly, _and it’s only fitting it surfaces again now, at its threshold._

He gets out of the car, careful not to reveal the existence of another person in the back seat, and strides towards the front gates, looming, for all the world, like the gates of Hell; despite the lush greenery surrounding them and filling the air with a fresh scent- far from sulfur and brimstone. _Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,_ Aziraphale thinks with a mirthless smile, as he takes the last few strides, and reaches for the metal latch.

* * *


	8. The Prodigal Son

The baying of hounds starts off far away, but it's rapidly moving closer, so Aziraphale instinctively steps backwards. The manor’s dogs used to favour him when he lived there, as he’d always slip them a treat or two, much to the chagrin of the hounds master. But he is a stranger now, and there's every chance they aren't even the same beasts he left behind, it’s been years after all.

Sure enough, there is nothing but aggression coming off from the three unfamiliar dogs that barrel down the footpath to growl and bark at him from behind the gate. Only then does Aziraphale notice the doorbell that has been installed, a new addition since he last crossed this gate, and he wonders if there is any point in ringing it now. Surely the racket made by the dogs will alert someone soon enough, and one of the servants will come to investigate. He can only hope they will call the dogs off when they see it’s him waiting outside. _Quite the end to both my mission and my fraught relationship with the family, if I'm not even allowed to enter the grounds anymore,_ he muses. He almost hopes for that to be the case, even as he knows it’s selfish. He’s not there for his own sake, and the least he can do is sacrifice his comfort.

Eden, who’d been flying in anxious circles overhead ever since they’d left the car, flutters down to Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Someone’s coming down the footpath, I couldn’t tell who though. I can fly a bit closer and find out,” she says.

“No, stay! Please.”

“Of course,” replies Eden, the same need for closeness and safety that she hears in Aziraphale’s voice reverberating through her hollow bones.

They expect a servant, so there’s a moment of shared, silent panic when the familiar form of Gabriel appears around the bend on the footpath.

“Bugger,” says Eden.

“Rather, yes,” mutters Aziraphale.

He had expected to be escorted back to the house, maybe even offered a cup of tea by the butler, before having to make a case for his right to be here to his holier-than-thou brothers. It seems now that his stage will be a much different one, even if his lines, already planned out and rehearsed in his head, remain the same. But at least he only has to deal with one of his brothers. _The one,_ Aziraphale thinks as he watches Gabriel’s face jump from surprise to anger to derision in quick succession upon recognizing him, _that may make my blood boil, but at least he doesn’t make it freeze with fear. Small mercies._

Gabriel is a few meters away when he lifts a thin whistle that’s hanging from his neck and brings it to his lips. There is no sound, none that Aziraphale can hear at least, but the hounds are immediately brought to heel. Gabriel walks past them and they scatter back towards the house. Gabriel’s daemon is striding behind him; his head is held haughtily high and he looks like he’s preening, despite his train of impressive white feathers remaining folded behind him. As if to reflect Gabriel’s unusually modest state of dress: rough-looking wool trousers tucked into practical leather boots that a gardener might wear.

Eden puffs up on Aziraphale’s shoulder, her beady eyes focusing on the strutting peacock with burning intensity.

"Play nice now dear, they won’t exactly be thrilled to take us back if you peck Malachi’s crest off, _again,”_ Aziraphale mumbles, his face twisting into the kind of empty, fake smile Gabriel Fell might have as well invented.

“Oh, and they would be thrilled otherwise?” murmurs Eden, carefully grooming her own feathers down back into place, just as the youngest Fell reaches the gate and clasps his hands in front of him, regarding them through the thin bars.

"Aziraphale, what are you doing here?" Gabriel smiles, a wide thing full of teeth beneath cold, empty eyes, so blue they almost flash indigo. 

_"Sandalphon says they're devil eyes," Gabriel sobs, tiny balled up fists pressing against his closed eyelids, as if to force the offending organs deeper into their sockets._

_Aziraphale gently pries his little brother's hands away, holds them in front of him and runs his thumbs in soothing patterns on the inside of his tense wrists._

_"He's dumb then," he says with the kind of fervor only a child of eight can manage. "They're blue like an angel's, that's why mum named you Gabriel."_

_Gabriel sniffles and looks up at him, his eyes tear-bright and wide, lips parted in awe of his older brother's bravery. He would never dare to say such a thing about Sandalphon, no one else would._

_Aziraphale releases his brother's hands as soon as they stop trembling, and he reaches up to cup his tear-streaked cheeks, wiping a few of the fresh tears that start falling at the gesture with his thumbs._

_"He said I'm unnatural," Gabriel sniffles, "because of my eyes and because Malachi is a boy."_

_The daemon in question peeks from around Gabriel's skinny calves, currently in the form of a fluffy white kitten. Eden abandons her own aviant form to become a tomcat, older than Malachi though still shy of adulthood, and approaches the younger daemon. The kitten stumbles towards her, and Aziraphale watches fondly as Eden grooms his brother's daemon to soothe him._

_He attempts to do the same for his brother with his words. "There's nothing unnatural about it, it's just rare. Even father says so, and even some of the Holy Fathers have boy daemons sometimes. You tell Sandalphon that if he says anything like this again."_

_Gabriel sniffles again, more loudly, and wipes at his face with a dirty shirtsleeve, before giving Aziraphale a wet, gap-toothed grin. "Thanks, Zira," he says before wrapping his arms around Aziraphale's chest and squeezing with every ounce of strength his wrung-out body can muster._

"Aziraphale, I asked you a question," Gabriel says coldly, his mockery of a smile dropping from his face.

Aziraphale shakes his head, clearing the echoes of a time so long ago he may as well have only imagined it. He needs to remind himself, once more, that the man he sees before him now has proven time and again to have nothing in common with the little boy he was then.

Still, his voice comes out softer than intended when he finally speaks. "I learned about father. I came to see him."

"Oh, _now_ you worry about father?" Gabriel sneers.

"He's sick, Gabriel," Aziraphale snaps, surprised by the force in his own voice. "He's sick and none of you thought to tell me, I had to find out through _gossip!"_

It's Gabriel's turn to soften, just for a moment, under the weight of Aziraphale's pent up frustration. "We didn't think you'd care," he manages snippily, even as he is moving to open the gate.

"You thought wrong." Aziraphale sighs, already feeling the toll this conversation has on him. He is more than happy to join his brother in quiet brooding as they make their way up to the house. In a way it's almost companionable; a weight settling across both their shoulders, and the two of them silently bearing it.

"You know, father may not want to see you," Gabriel says abruptly when they're only a few metres from the house. His voice is, for a moment, devoid of vitriol and judgement. Instead it's heavy and tired, almost as if the building ahead of them also looms over _him_ like a great gnarled beast waiting to devour him whole. Aziraphale does wonder sometimes, whether Gabriel could have been different, had he left too.

"It's his choice," says Aziraphale, and he finds that his voice doesn't falter. The deep, unyielding truth of that statement anchors him. _They all had a choice, they have a choice every day and there's no house full of ghosts to blame._

And Aziraphale's choices have led him here, so he swallows down his bitterness and turns towards his brother with an affable little smile. _Extend an olive branch, and by the time they realize it's made of wire and paper crushed together it will already be over._

"Gabriel, I uh, I've heard you've been doing well yourself. Climbing the ladder, as it were." Aziraphale allows himself to bumble, to lower his head in something dangerously close to contrition when his brother pins him with a suspicious glare.

For a moment Aziraphale worries it was too much too soon, but then, Gabriel's strength has never been his wit. All he has accomplished within the Magisterium comes down to three things: he's stubborn as a mule, deeply bureaucratic, and a follower to his core but with the booming projecting ego of a leader.

"Yes, I… didn't think you cared about any of that," Gabriel says, suspicion creeping back into his voice even as he's obviously excited to talk about it, _at length._

"You're my brother, of course I care," Aziraphale says sheepishly.

Gabriel considers it for a moment and he eventually settles for a self-satisfied grin.

"I'm following in father’s footsteps in the department, only faster than him," Gabriel leans in close with a conspiratorial wink, "But, don't let him hear that, eh?"

Gabriel laughs and claps Aziraphale on the shoulder, and Aziraphale has to stop himself from wincing. 

"Oh my, that sounds _impressive._ I never really understood how any of that stuff works, not like you and father,” Aziraphale practically croons.

“Leadership is something you have to be born with, Aziraphale,” says Gabriel, pushing the front door open. “Though of course there are always ways to better yourself, any powerful man knows that.”

Aziraphale hums and nods. And he continues to do so as Gabriel launches into a long winded speech, pausing only momentarily to order coffee from one of the servants -completely ignoring Aziraphale interjecting he prefers tea- and then eventually, after some urging, to send the housekeeper upstairs to his father’s room to inform him of Aziraphale’s visit.

Gabriel’s words are mostly -or rather entirely- rubbish, hardly grazing the surface of anything pertaining to the nature of his work within his department, and yet Aziraphale not only listens, but he records every word in his mind for later consideration. _It is perhaps_ , he muses, _the true hardship of espionage, having to lend your attention to things like Gabriel's self-congratulatory tirades._

He's saved after forty minutes of this, confirmed by a peek at his pocket watch, by Mrs Robinson coming down the stairs and politely interrupting them. The old housekeeper spares Aziraphale an apologetic glance, genuine concern creasing the deep lines of her face even further; Aziraphale had always been on excellent terms with the staff, up until the day he left. But it's Gabriel she addresses.

"Your father doesn't wish to speak to master Aziraphale today."

"I see. Thank you, Mrs Robinson. You can go," Gabriel dismisses with a wave of his hand bordering on rude.

Aziraphale doesn't need to feign his disheartenment. Despite expecting it, despite knowing it was _his_ decision to eventually turn his back on this family, the rejection still cuts that same familiar place it has cut over and over before; all the scar tissue still hasn't made that part of his heart hardened enough to prevent pain from slicing through.

"I… I don't know what I expected," Aziraphale mutters, hands wringing nervously and eyes lowered.

He expects Gabriel's pompous and long winded I-told-you-so routine; he's heard it before after all, every time he dared to hope for some kind of support from the person he considered the less fanatical and more practical member of the family.

"He wouldn't just forgive you like that," the younger man offers instead, his tone almost modest.

Aziraphale looks up to see curious blue eyes boring into him, as his brother seems to try to reach some sort of decision on how exactly he should be feeling. He doesn't let the chance slip through his fingers.

"It might be pointless, then," he says mournfully. "I've never known anyone able to change father's mind, least of all me. I just wish I would have gotten one last chance to make my peace with him."

Aziraphale hazards a glance upwards, breaking his posture of perfect martyrdom. He glimpses the moment the decision is made, stamped, and approved, in his brother's eyes.

"If you really mean it, that you've truly seen the error of your past ways, Aziraphale, I could try to talk to him for you."

Aziraphale has to school his expression so it doesn't break into a grin. _This is too easy,_ he dares to think, aware of his own hubris but uncaring at the face of his approaching victory; _oh, the things one can do if they only put their pride aside._

"Oh, you might just be the person he respects enough to listen!" Aziraphale exclaims. "And I feel _so very repentant."_

"Then I'll make it happen for you," Gabriel declares magnanimously. 

Aziraphale isn't spared another enthusiastic thump on the back, or the mortifying ordeal of having to _thank_ Gabriel for that. But he does rather well, keeps the wincing to a minimum, and even saves Gabriel from the uncomfortable task of having to hint to Aziraphale that he's overstaying his welcome.

"I better get going for now. I have my cab waiting," he says.

"Oh, yes, that might be best. Is your phone number the same? Still running a bookshop?" asks Gabriel.

Aziraphale doesn't bother to hide his frown at Gabriel's tone as well as the reminder that his family could had contacted him any time.

"Yes, it's still the same," he says curtly, as the two of them head towards the front door.

Both men stop in their tracks when they see the door handle turn. Aziraphale takes a step back and Eden leaves his shoulder, instinctively seeking higher ground.

Aziraphale had erroneously assumed that he wouldn't be seeing his older brother any more than he saw his father during this visit, and he had been glad. Now, as he watches Sandalphon step through the door, he feels a wave of panic swell in his chest and begin to overtake him. He doesn't turn to Gabriel, he knows he would once again be met by a cold, empty stare. It might have been better than the intense, hateful way Sandalphon's dark eyes are boring into him.

Elisheva, Sandalphon's goat daemon, trots inside after him. The sound of hooves on marble breaks the silence, then Sandalphon speaks up. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Aziraphale was just leaving," Gabriel pipes up. "Don't worry about it."

"That's not what I asked now, is it, Gabriel?"

Aziraphale glances over at Gabriel just in time to see him wince and hunch his shoulders forward, as if he's trying to make himself smaller.

"I came to see father," says Aziraphale. He hates that his voice falters, that he feels Sandalphon looming over him even though he's taller than his brother now.

He waits for the litany of condemnations and ridicule that's sure to follow, braces himself as best as he can, fists clenched on his sides and head bowed down; a man who's seen the flashers of lightning, ready to face the storm. But the thunder that should follow never comes.

"I saw what must be your cab waiting in the driveway, let me walk you out." Sandalphon’s voice is so affable that it doesn't sound like his own. The smile that accompanies it makes Aziraphale shudder.

But there is no way around it. Eden flutters to Aziraphale's shoulder and they follow Sandalphon and Elisheva out the door even as muscle memory screams not to. Aziraphale used to know what to expect when his older brother cornered him, and if that scared him, it's nothing compared to the uncertainty he feels now and the horrors his own mind conjures. He stares down at the footpath, dry and dusty, and he counts the large stone tiles.

_Twenty three. Or is it twenty four? The sludge that has spilled over onto the path after a whole night of persistent rain makes it harder to tell where one tile ends and the next begins. It doesn't matter. Aziraphale only counts to calm the sound of his blood roaring in his ears enough to be able to hear the two sets of wet footsteps on the flagstones. It's the only thing telling him what his brother is doing for as long as he doesn't dare lift his eyes up._

_Sandalphon's footsteps come to a halt, and Aziraphale freezes in his tracks. He feels Eden bump against the back of his calves in her cat form, and then weave between his legs protectively._

_"Don't you have anything to say?" Sandalphon takes purposefully slow strides towards Aziraphale, until he's standing right in front of him._

_"'m sorry."_

_"For what?"_

_At this, Aziraphale's head snaps up in surprise. He's stopped trying to figure out what it is he's done wrong, stopped caring. It could be anything and everything; from imagined slights to the way he looked at his older brother._

_"If you're sorry," his brother growls, "what is it you're sorry for?"_

_Elisheva is also in her feline form, a heavyset patchwork alley-cat with her hackles raised, staring Eden down with a low growl. Eden backs away, her own fur standing on edge._

_"I don't know," Aziraphale squeaks._

_It's obviously the wrong thing to say, as the next instant Sandalphon seizes him violently by the front of his shirt._

_Aziraphale is unable to even consider a response as he spirals into a wild panic. Eden and Elisheva are hissing and spitting at each other somewhere off to the side, and Aziraphale desperately tries to pull away from his brother's grip, even if he has to rip the front of his shirt to do so. Sandalphon suddenly lets go and Aziraphale falls. He lands gracelessly and the soft mud breaks his fall, but it also clings to him; seeping through the thin fabric of his trousers, unpleasantly damp and cold._

_"That might remind you of your place," Sandalphon sneers._

_Aziraphale feels his eyes burn, the humiliation clinging to his skin just like the mud. But Sandalphon is not getting any closer, and he dares to hope that it's over now; lesson learned, or perhaps he's not worth getting muddy over._

_The pain, unlike anything he has ever felt, starts somewhere in the middle of his chest and spreads outwards to wrap around every inch of bone and muscle like a burning vine. Aziraphale doubles over, hands desperately running over his own chest in search of a wound that isn't there. Then he hears the muffled sob coming from his daemon and his eyes instantly zero in on her. Eden is still in her cat form, but Elisheva has traded claws for the gnarled hands of a spider monkey and she's twisting Eden's feline form in her harsh grip._

_"Please," Aziraphale gasps, unable to find any other words as his tears finally begin to spill. His daemon's pain reverberates through his entire being, and he finds in that moment that he would do anything to make it stop._

_Sandalphon looks down at him with the sort of abject distaste usually reserved for animal carcasses on the side of the road. The pain eases, but the invasive feeling of the shape of hands wrapped around his daemon -even those belonging to another daemon- remains._

_It will linger for hours, and it will reduce Aziraphale to tears for days. And when, years later, Eden's form begins to settle, it will be the memory of this feeling that steers her towards winged shapes._

Aziraphale keeps an eye on his daemon who's flying low overhead, always close to him but well out of reach. And another on his brother, who seems unsettlingly serene, as if simply content to stroll along.

Unlike Gabriel, Sandalphon doesn't feel the need to fill the silence with small talk, no matter how oppressive it gets. In fact, on most instances he counts on it, weaponizing a good uncomfortable silence the way others do their words. But from what Aziraphale can glean now, he seems to be attempting to look amicable; a foreign expression that stretches uncomfortably across features that weren't made for it.

Aziraphale is relieved when they reach the gate, the sweet promise of freedom just beyond.

"So, we can find you at that bookshop of yours?" Sandalphon asks as he pulls the iron gate open.

Aziraphale could swear there's something strange in the way Sandalphon says 'bookshop', something almost predatory. Or maybe he's seeing threats even when there aren't any. Whichever the case, it's with great hesitation that he nods an affirmative, the mere thought of Sandalphon knowing about his shop creating an unpleasant lump in his throat.

"Yes. It was good seeing you," Aziraphale lies and quickly walks out.

Sandalphon watches from the gate as Aziraphale walks to the parked cab. He opens the door carefully, even though the back of the car faces away from the gate, and slips in as fast as he can without raising suspicion. He collapses into the back seat the moment the door is safely shut, the tinted glass protecting the interior of the back seat from prying eyes, closing his eyes for several moments even as the driver starts to pull away from the driveway.

“Next time you are getting an actual cab,” says Ms Uriel.

Aziraphale isn’t sure whether she’s serious or not. He stares at her for a moment before asking, “aren’t you going to ask how it went?”

“Not my department.” Uriel shrugs. “You stayed there for almost two hours, actually came back out, and it was one of your brothers that escorted you to the gate and he seemed… friendly enough.”

 _Two hours,_ thinks Aziraphale despondently, _and it felt like the better part of a century._ He doesn’t say that though, he won’t invite her to question his competence again.

“I didn’t bring up Bologna, or alethiometers or any of it, of course, but Gabriel seems willing to talk about his work. I just don’t know when it will be the right time to-”

“You can discuss all that with your handler, Mr. Fell,” Ms Uriel interrupts, rubbing a hand over tired eyes.

“Oh I- I thought you would be my handler.” 

"Only today while Lady Michael briefed your actual handler."

"My actual… Crowley?" exclaims Aziraphale.

"Yes. Would there be a reason against it?"

Aziraphale shakes his head vigorously. _It makes perfect sense really, and if it so happens to mean that they won't be sending Crowley away, well that's just an added bonus._

"I am sure he will do great," he says.

The rest of the ride is quiet, and Aziraphale feels relief settle over him like a warm blanket. He didn't doubt Crowley's sincerity when he said he'll be there waiting for him when he returns. But he knew it wasn't entirely in his hands. Now he can rest in that certainty, and he even finds himself nodding off against the car door, his daemon nestling on his lap.

He’s shaken awake with unexpected gentleness, and the frightening disorientation of those seconds between sleep and consciousness disperses the moment he catches sight of his bookshop out of the car window. _It’s home_ , he thinks, _the only place that has ever truly been home. With his books and his wines and his little garden on the roof and… Crowley._

It should probably surprise him how easily Crowley fits in the puzzle, but it doesn’t. There are so many holes and missing pieces; it hardly feels improbable that one of them would be Crowley-shaped.

“Mr Fell? Are you alright?”

Aziraphale realizes he’s frozen, hand clasping the car door handle. He clears his throat and gives Ms Uriel an embarrassed smile.

“Yes, jolly good. Thank you. I’ll be off then, got things to report, missions to plan.”

He opens the car door before he can continue prattling and hops off to the pavement. The chime of the store bell as he unlocks and pushes the door of his shop open is sweet music to his ears.

* * *


	9. Ultimatum

Crowley locks up after Lady Michael leaves the bookshop, using the key that Aziraphale left for him a few days ago. It’s the first time he ever uses it and he can’t help but consider all the possible meanings behind the gesture beyond ‘you pretty much live here now, so here’. 

_Don't read anything into it, you idiot,_ he chastises himself. With all the work they have ahead of them, he can hardly afford the time for such silly thoughts. They still find their way in, between Crowley's contemplation of everything Lady Michael told him and the plans he's already forming on how to proceed. Because those plans include Aziraphale, the newfound catalyst for all of Crowley's silly or downright inappropriate thoughts.

He's hiding away in the back room when he hears the store bell chime, and he tenses up even though he's almost certain Aziraphale has the only other key to the front door. He recognizes the sound of Aziraphale's footsteps and his heart settles, even before Aziraphale softly calls out for him.

"In the back, angel." Crowley wonders briefly whether he's overstepping some sort of boundary with the pet name.

The footsteps become faster and louder on the hardwood floor, and then Aziraphale emerges through the doorway, Eden fluttering in after him. Any concern Crowley had evaporates at the sight of the beaming smile Aziraphale gives him.

"For a moment I worried that… Oh, it doesn't matter." Aziraphale gives a dismissive little wave and then his expression falls. "We should probably start debriefing, right? That's what you're here for, after all."

Something in Aziraphale's tone makes Crowley want to protest. But the tension in Aziraphale's shoulders and the tell-tale way Eden is sorting through her feathers as if itching to start over-grooming gives him pause. He briefly looks to Eve, who responds with a rather un-snake-like cock of her head.

"No need to rush, whenever you feel ready," Crowley says in what he hopes is a mild, soothing tone.

“I am not fragile, Crowley! I won't break down in the middle of a report!”

Crowley visibly flinches at the unexpected outburst, and Eve coils up into a defensive little ball.

Aziraphale instantly deflates. He instinctively brings a hand to cover his mouth as his expression turns to horrified shame. Eden, still on his shoulder, hides her face behind her wing.

“I didn’t mean to… Oh, Crowley, I am so sorry, I should never have snapped at you like that.” Aziraphale’s eyes are glued to the floor now, his shoulders slumped in utter defeat.

Crowley takes a moment to gather himself. He reaches out to Eve, who uncoils herself and shyly slithers over. For a moment, unsure of what to say, Crowley just watches Aziraphale squirm miserably. The sight is somehow more upsetting than his previous outburst. Crowley sighs and runs a hand across his face.

“‘s fine, you had a long day.”

“It’s not fine,” Aziraphale retorts fiercely. “It’s not fair to you! You are only here to help me, and you have been nothing but kind to me and-”

Crowley isn’t sure when exactly he decided to get up from the couch and start moving, but now he’s standing right in front of Aziraphale, who stops talking but still won’t look at him.

“I forgive you,” Crowley says softly.

Aziraphale looks up, his eyes searching but so earnestly hopeful it’s Crowley’s turn to have to force himself not to turn away. 

“After all, you’re really the one who’s been kind and helpful, I’ve mostly just been sleeping on your couch and drinking your wine.”

Aziraphale lets out a small laugh, and he looks like he’s about to argue so Crowley presses on: “Speaking of, we both could do with a drink right now. You sit down, I can find the wine glasses.”

With that, he sidesteps Aziraphale and dashes off towards the shop’s kitchenette.

“You’re both hopelesss,” Eve says quietly, when they’re in the kitchen and well out of earshot.

Crowley looks down at her with a raised eyebrow. “And you have been spending way too much time with that judgemental crow.”

“Raven,” Eve corrects.

Crowley rolls his eyes good-naturedly and quickly searches through the few sparse cabinets until he finds two long-stemmed glasses. It’s easy to locate an unopened bottle of red in the cupboard that meets his standards -which currently involve anything subtler than straight vinegar- and he takes everything to the backroom.

They both have been loose lipped while in their cups before, but this time Aziraphale barely shares more than what Lady Michael already did about his family. He does describe every conversation and interaction, all with a stiff neutrality that’s at odds with how Aziraphale reacted to mentions of his family before he actually visited them. Crowley doesn’t press him on the matter; he too has things he would rather not share with Aziraphale, but he probably would if Aziraphale asked. Reopening old wounds, everything else aside, will hardly help with keeping him safe. _First lesson for any spy: the less you feel, the better._

Crowley laughs at the way Aziraphale describes Gabriel’s gullibility and inflated ego, and he feels a surge of pride for his friend’s rather excellent manipulation. He doesn’t laugh at the description of the oldest Fell brother; he can feel the shift in Aziraphale’s demeanor when he talks about him, and he decides right there and then that Sandalphon Fell is bad news.

“You think there is a chance of him coming here?” Crowley asks when Aziraphale recounts their parting words with Sandalphon. “Either of them really, they both mentioned the shop.”

Aziraphale shudders visibly at the idea. He takes a long sip and considers it. “They haven’t before, but they might at the very least send someone to snoop around. It would be safer for you to stay upstairs from now on.”

Crowley’s brain conjures the image of the rooftop garden, before he realizes Aziraphale means his flat, at which point he promptly chokes on his wine.

“Oh dear, there you go, be careful.” Aziraphale pats him gently on the back, and he leaves his hand absentmindedly resting there even after he has made sure Crowley is alright.

“What was I saying? Ah, yes. I would have asked you sooner but I didn’t want to, um, be too forward and put you in a difficult position. But the couch is more comfortable upstairs, and you could also take the bedroom for a few nights to get some proper rest.”

Crowley considers it. It’s a rational offer, one his sore legs will be especially thankful for, but his gratitude for getting to sleep on an actual bed is momentarily forgotten in favour of the thought _'Aziraphale’s bedroom’_ and all the thoughts that inevitably follow it. _Hopeless indeed,_ he muses glancing at Eve, who is trying to rest her head and neck on a comfortably nestled Eden but keeps sliding off.

When Aziraphale keeps looking at him expectantly for an answer he nods and coughs out a small “thanks” before downing the rest of his wine.

* * *

Aziraphale is surprised, at first, at how little their day-to-day routine changes despite their new roles and mission. He still keeps up the pretense of running a bookshop while Crowley tends the garden and naps the remaining hours away, safely hidden from prying eyes. Aziraphale has never been fond of customers even before the knowledge that any of them could be one of Sandalphon's lackeys, so he tries to minimize his working hours. And the rest he spends with Crowley.

They talk like they used to, with the difference that Crowley now tends to interject with the occasional lesson in espionage. It's both interesting, and sometimes endearing. As is the fact that he never pushes Aziraphale to talk more about his family, despite the curiosity clearly written on his face. That alone makes Aziraphale want to talk to him about it sometimes. Maybe then he would feel less lonely when the day comes that he has to visit Fell Manor again.

The second time he doesn't cross paths with Sandalphon, which in itself is good. But it also leaves a lot more free time to spend with Gabriel, arguably also good considering he is the one in possession of the information Aziraphale needs. Only, he is rather keen on talking about _anything but that._ Aziraphale does an admirable job, if he can say so himself, of not pouring his own scalding tea down the front of his shirt for an excuse to retreat. In fact, he even makes the proper sounds of interest and asks questions that consolidate his interest in his brother's work. He almost forgets to ask to see his father, and he is once again refused when he does.

Crowley waits for him in the flat upstairs, as per their new arrangement. They still debrief in the shop’s backroom, as soon as Aziraphale has locked up and made sure he has not been followed. That’s not because he doesn’t want to share his flat space with Crowley, but rather because Aziraphale himself is most comfortable in the shop.

It’s easy for him to recount the conversations that took place with accuracy; it’s a bit like reciting the world’s most boring poetry, which is to say, his heart isn’t in it. Instead it decides to take note of the way Crowley still hangs from his every word, the way he leans forward at certain points and tops up Aziraphale’s glass without being asked, and of the way he shifts and stretches his legs uncomfortably in front of him as if every position contains at least some degree of agony.

The latter is a source of concern that Aziraphale has learned to hide about as well as Crowley hides his leg pain; it’s invisible except on the days it gets particularly strong. So that night he makes sure to retreat to the flat uncharacteristically early, earlier even than Crowley, who is arguably much better than him at going to bed at a reasonable hour. He turns on the anbaric heater in his bedroom to chase the humidity from the air, and he settles into the couch with such an immovable arrangement of various books and tea mugs around him that by the time Crowley catches onto him he can do nothing but accept the kindness with minimum protest.

Aziraphale arranges a third visit to his family in the same week, after Crowley reluctantly urges him to do so. Gabriel, who must be doing quite a lot of work from home considering how readily available he has been every single time, tells Aziraphale to stop asking to see father for a while. To ‘let him handle it’, and for all of Gabriel’s condescending, patronizing manner there’s a part of Aziraphale that’s genuinely grateful for the out he’s offered. He doesn’t manage to coax much about work out of Gabriel, and he has to struggle to hide his concern when his brother informs him that Sandalphon would like to talk to him again. All in all, it ends up feeling like a big step backwards, but there’s a small consolation prize: he convinces Gabriel to give him a dog whistle, so he can enter the premises safely without being escorted.

Crowley praises him for that and Aziraphale soaks it up, even knowing that despite what Crowley says as his friend, he is obviously anxious about their progress as his handler. Somehow the thought of letting Crowley down feels worse than having to face his higher-ups. But at the same time, the knowledge that Crowley is waiting for him back at the flat makes it easier to walk into his family’s home as if it isn’t full of memories he’d rather not awaken, and lie his way through painfully unpleasant meetings with his brothers, the fear of getting found out breathing down his neck the whole time. And having Crowley by his side while he calls his older brother and arranges dinner with him helps his voice to remain steady, and even makes it feel possible that he will get through it.

Later, when he’s alone in his bed with the darkness pressing too close for comfort, that hope that shone so brightly earlier melts down to nothing and burns off. It’s too late to do anything about it.

* * *

Crowley grows to resent the daily calls from Michael. He hates her condescending tone, as if having to rely on the likes of him and Aziraphale -and this is what makes him seethe, he's used to people insulting him and he has learned not to care- is the most distasteful of compromises. No amount of reported progress satisfies her, and she keeps pushing for more, for quicker results. Crowley cannot tell her that Aziraphale has his own pace, that he cannot keep pushing to go faster, not without her taking it as another sign of Aziraphale's incompetence.

So he reassures her, and he even pushes Aziraphale beyond what he would like. He knows that being a spy is not supposed to be comfortable work, but it doesn't make him feel any better about it. And Aziraphale pushes through it all with a bright-eyed sort of eagerness to please that both warms and shatters Crowley's heart. And he knows that feeling this way makes him rather unfit to be Aziraphale’s handler.

Even when you’re working for the good guys, a handler’s first instinct shouldn’t be to pull the operative from the mission because ‘he turns closed off and looks upset when he mentions his older brother’. He should encourage it when, after his third visit to the manor, Aziraphale mentions that Sandalphon Fell, a person at the heart of The Magisterium, wants to establish some sort of connection. Hell, he should be extremely pleased at the opportunity.

Instead, urging Aziraphale to make the call feels like an act of treason. Every forced cheerful word that Aziraphale utters into the receiver, which is wrapped too tightly in his trembling fingers, is like a punch to the gut. And Crowley isn’t even sure why. Why it feels so painful, and why that night even as his legs decide to give him a blessed reprieve from pain he still cannot find any rest.

He doesn’t have to wait for long to find out, because after his fourth visit to Fell Manor Aziraphale finally breaks down.

There’s something wrong in the very air when Aziraphale returns that day. Crowley feels it like static on his skin, as he waits at the top of the stairs for Aziraphale to call out like he always does, to let Crowley know it’s safe to come down.

When the call never comes Crowley hesitates, even though he can only hear one familiar set of footsteps in the shop below, and even though there are no voices talking. _What if Sandalphon followed Aziraphale to the bookshop? He did express an interest in it after all._ He stays still on the top of the stairs, listening intently, ready to bolt towards the roof and hide there if he has to. Eve tastes the air for unfamiliar scents and there are none, only Eden, and Aziraphale, and after the sound of ceaseless pacing eases down, the increasingly familiar scent of alcohol.

“We have to go to him,” Eve says.

Crowley takes the first step before his daemon even finishes her sentence. He is thankful for the low pain day as he begins his quick descent, and the only thing that slows him down is the strain of separation when Eve lags behind; Crowley may have his good days, but she’s never good with stairs, so he gently scoops her up and places her on his shoulders before continuing down.

The shop is dark and quiet, the only light coming from the entrance to the back room, so Crowley folds his glasses in his pocket, adjusting comfortably to the dark. He checks the front door before he goes to the back; to make sure they’re safe, but also to stall.

“What if he’s hurt?” he whispers to Eve, his voice threatening to rise in pitch and volume as panic seizes him.

“Then we musssst help.”

Crowley steels himself because she’s right. Whatever he’s afraid of finding, Aziraphale will have to deal with alone if he doesn’t walk through that threshold. He makes sure his footsteps are audible, a warning in case Aziraphale doesn’t want him there -and isn’t it the real reason he’s scared of going to him? _What if I am not wanted?_

There are no sounds of distress coming from the back room, no scent of blood or sweat in the air. The dim firelight feels more bright and aggressive with every step, and Crowley reaches for his glasses, longing for every kind of protection they offer him.

Aziraphale doesn’t call out, either in invitation or rejection. Crowley steps into the backroom to find Aziraphale in his armchair, just as he expected. He’s staring into the fire, nursing a nearly empty glass of wine, with the rest of the bottle resting on the reading table nearby. Eden is perched on the back of the armchair, staring off into a corner, and there’s a strange sense of distance between them despite being only centimeters apart that makes Crowley’s skin crawl.

“Hey,” Crowley says softly from the doorway.

Aziraphale looks up at him, a familiar blank expression plastered on his face that sends Crowley’s heart racing with worry.

“Oh. I should have called you down, to give my report. I’m sorry, I forgot myself.”

Aziraphale’s voice sounds hollow, devoid of all feeling just like his expression, and Crowley can’t take it. They’ve danced the same dance before, and now he knows the steps. He strides towards the armchair with purpose, and then thinks better of it and perches on the edge of the couch, leaving Aziraphale some breathing distance.

“You are not alright.” Crowley doesn’t ask, so Aziraphale cannot try to lie. “What can I do to help you?”

Aziraphale keeps staring at the fire for a moment longer, but Eden is looking at him now. He knows they’re both listening.

“Let me… give my report,” Aziraphale says again. This time there is force behind his voice.

Crowley nods. “Tell me.”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and exhales shakily, and Eden migrates from the top of the backrest to his shoulder.

“Sandalphon asked me about my books. Not the ones I sell, the ones I collect.” A mirthless laugh leaves Aziraphale’s lips. “Of all the people in the family to suddenly care about my interests.”

Crowley has seen more than a glimpse of Aziraphale’s various collections during his stay here. From signed first editions to banned books to rare misprinted bibles. He doesn’t think there is a more fascinating or a more loved book collection, and he definitely doesn’t like the idea of the likes of Sandalphon Fell anywhere near it. Or anywhere near its owner, who is currently reaching a hand to stroke through his daemon’s feathers before continuing: 

“He asked about any prophecy books in my collection. Remember when I showed you a few?” At that Aziraphale gives Crowley a genuine little smile before his expression turns downcast again. 

“He just knew about it all. My book collection, an auction I went to last month for a Mother Shipton tome of prophecy, my contacts in the book dealing business. He just knew those things about me. As… As if I never left.”

Aziraphale’s breath quickens as he speaks, and his voice becomes strained with the effort to contain his rising panic.

“And I am still scared of him, Crowley, as if I never left.”

Crowley hears the shape of a suppressed sob in Aziraphale’s sharp inhale. His words hang heavy in the air and his fingers are digging into the ends of the chair’s armrests, knuckles white and trembling from the pressure. Crowley leaves his seat to crouch in front of the armchair and reaches out for him. He doesn’t try to pry Aziraphale’s hands off, he simply covers them with his own; a silent invitation to let go, something else to hold on to if Aziraphale needs to.

“You did leave,” Crowley says. He seeks Aziraphale’s eyes with his own and he repeats it once he manages to capture his attention.

Aziraphale nods resolutely, but there is moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes threatening to spill, so he turns away. His right hand slips from beneath Crowley’s palm and comes to wipe furiously at his eyes.

“I used to… I never knew what it was I did wrong. There was always something, even when I thought I did everything right, even when I did nothing at all there was something to be punished for. That… uncertainty, that fear every time we were alone, it was somehow worse than the actual beatings. I feel that fear again, as if nothing has changed.”

Aziraphale voice steadies, but the tears keep spilling unbidden from his eyes, so his cheeks remain wet no matter how many he angrily rubs away. Crowley aches to reach up and do it for him. He’d be gentler than Aziraphale is with himself, he would make sure not to leave any angry red marks under his eyes and down his cheeks. He is about to start reaching when he realizes Aziraphale’s fingers are wrapped around his left hand, holding onto him so gently he hadn’t even registered the pressure. When he does, for a moment the world goes dark, the only source of light being the single point of contact between them. He squeezes back, starts running his thumb across Aziraphale’s wrist in a soothing back and forth motion.

“Everything has changed. You are no longer a child, you are no longer trapped, and you are no longer alone, Aziraphale.” Crowley is taken aback by the sound of his own voice, he didn’t know it could sound so warm and earnest.

Aziraphale looks at him, for all the world like he’s searching for the lie he’s obviously being told. The doubt he sees in those red-rimmed but still impossibly clear blue eyes makes Crowley feel like the air is being stolen from his lungs, but he holds Aziraphale’s gaze. His left hand drops from where it’s sitting idly on the armrest to Aziraphale’s knee, another gentle weight to keep him here, but only if he wants it. Crowley doesn’t want to let go, but he will if he has to. All Aziraphale has to do is ask.

“You don’t have to meet him again if you don’t want to. He’s not our mission, and I get to decide when you make contact and with who.”

Aziraphale seems to weigh each of Crowley’s words, and by the time he’s done his breaths are steady and even.

“Whom,” Aziraphale says, a familiar smugness creeping back into his voice.

Crowley laughs then, at first a soft chuckle, and then as he sees the familiar spark of mischief return in his friend’s eyes a loud hearty laugh coloured with all the relief flooding his chest.

Their hands stay intertwined while Crowley laughs and as he gets up on his feet, and neither man acknowledges it when they seperate so Crowley can grab the half empty wine bottle and sprawl on his couch.

“I am afraid I didn’t bring a second glass,” Aziraphale says with an apologetic little smile. “Wait I can- Crowley!”

Crowley doesn’t stop chugging wine straight from the bottle despite Aziraphale’s protests until he has downed the equivalent of an entire glass. When he lowers the bottle from his lips Aziraphale is glaring at him, so he offers up the bottle with a grin.

“Oh, you are incorrigible!” Aziraphale huffs, before snagging the bottle back, and after a small staring contest with Crowley he eventually relents and takes a large swig.

“D’ you know, my brother actually thought I might have Agnes Nutter's prophecies! Hah!” Aziraphale shakes his head like he’s sharing an especially funny inside joke with himself.

“What nutter’s prophecies?” asks Crowley, taking the bottle back.

“Agnes Nutter’s. The only book of recorded prophecies said to be completely accurate, written by an actual witch. Haven’t you heard of it?”

Crowley shakes his head, not having the heart to tell Aziraphale most people probably haven’t heard of it. Aziraphale’s excited expression is a tell-tale sign that a rather colourful, long, and passionate explanation is about to follow. For his part, Crowley is actually delighted to sit back and listen.

They go through two more bottles, and at some point a rather more inebriated Aziraphale migrates to the couch. They both fall asleep there in a comfortable tangle of limbs, their daemons cuddled up in front of the dying embers.

* * *

With Crowley’s help, Aziraphale shuts Sandalphon down despite his refusal to understand why a lost book of prophecy is called “lost”. He focuses all of his energy on Gabriel instead, redoubling his efforts to breach the subject of his work in Bologna.

For a man who talks as much as he does, Gabriel Fell is hard to get information out of. Not so much because he’s shrewd, but rather because he is himself so blunt that he expects the same of everyone else. Aziraphale hasn’t quite resigned to ‘Gabriel, can you please tell me what are your department’s plans for asserting power in Bologna University and acquiring the use of the alethiometer there? Out of pure curiosity, entirely unrelated to any organizations working against you,’ yet, even though part of him thinks it might just be the only thing that will work.

Instead he settles for casting a wider net with questions like ‘So, what does your department do exactly?’ and ‘Hard at work propagating that true faith, eh?’ The earnestness with which Gabriel replies sometimes can be almost disarming for Aziraphale. It’s frighteningly easy in those moments to see the bright-eyed little boy that used to trail behind Aziraphale, asking all sorts of questions and looking up at his older brother with eyes full of affection and childish admiration. The illusion is shattered when he inevitably says something like ‘heathen enemies of the Holy Church’ and Aziraphale is fully reminded of the young man who decided to blindly follow the hateful creed of their father and older brother, and who refused to stick up for Aziraphale the way Aziraphale used to do for him when they were children.

Another week passes before Aziraphale manages to get the first concrete piece of information on the University of Bologna.

“There are talks of electing a new Master soon, and of course a full shift in administrative power will follow. Gabriel’s office aims to tip the scales towards, I assume, a more pro-Magisterium candidate,” Aziraphale says without pausing for breath the moment he sits down to report. He studies Crowley’s expression, which turns thoughtful as he processes this.

“This is good, right? At least it’s elections not assassinations they’re planning.”

“I mean, that’s one way to secure an election,” Crowley mutters. “Still, this is definitely something! Well done!” He smiles brightly at Aziraphale, who feels slightly light-headed at the sight.

“That’s it really. I tried to keep him talking about it, get some names, but then I got this odd look and I thought it would be suspicious of me to keep pressing and... and…” Aziraphale trails off, realizing the more he talks about it that it’s really not much at all. He could have done better. _Should have done better._

“Aziraphale?” Crowley is leaning forward, one cool palm resting lightly on Aziraphale’s knee. His glasses have slipped down his nose, so Aziraphale can see the worry darkening his amber eyes.

“My thoughts got a bit ahead of me. I was thinking the sooner you inform Lady Michael the better,” Aziraphale lies. He holds Crowley’s gaze; one thing he learned even before he became a spy was to look into someone’s eyes when he lies to them. Then it might just work.

Crowley holds his stare for a moment before nodding slowly. "Yes, you're right, I suppose."

He gets up from his seat slowly, as if reluctant to leave the warmth and the company. "I will use the phone upstairs alright?"

Aziraphale nods, and as he watches Crowley go, he finds himself inexplicably wishing he'd been caught in his lie.

* * *

The number Crowley is given changes after each call, but someone always picks up after a few rings.

"You've reached Destler Musical Instruments, how can we be of assistance?" The man on the other end of the line sounds borderline annoyed, like an actual business owner would at receiving a call at this hour.

Crowley glances at the paper he scribbled the number on. He doesn't think he called wrong, but he sighs before replying, wondering if other operatives are constantly made to sound like fools with their code phrases.

"I'd like to order two dozen french macarons,” he manages after a second of quiet deliberation.

There is no reply, but at least the man doesn’t laugh at him or hang up. It takes a few seconds for the familiar stern voice of Lady Michael to start pouring from the speaker. Eve, who’s wrapped around Crowley’s neck leans her head closer to the receiver in an attempt to listen.

“Mr Crowley, I do hope you have something to report this time.”

 _Bugger off,_ Crowley thinks. “I do, yes,” he says, allowing himself to be just a bit smug. 

“Oh?”

“There’s going to be elections in Bologna, for a new Master of the University. Gabriel’s office will want to secure a specific pro-Magisterium candidate in the position.”

“Which one?” Michael’s voice is clipped, seemingly unaffected by the piece of information offered.

“We don’t know yet,” Crowley admits.

“How?”

“Don’t know,” Crowley mumbles, his earlier confidence evaporating.

“Do you think we didn’t already know about the _election,_ Mr Crowley?” She doesn’t pause long enough to allow him to reply. “We have our own alethiometrist _inside_ the university. What Mr Fell was supposed to extract are the Magisterium’s plans for it, a task which he has repeatedly failed.”

Crowley can’t suppress a shudder at the tone of her voice; it could turn a man’s blood to ice, and it might have, were it not for the white-hot anger rising in Crowley’s chest. It spreads quickly and mercilessly like wildfire, until it reaches Crowley’s throat and envelops the words forming there.

“What more do you think he could have done? Press harder and give himself away? Don’t think your people would like _that,_ so why don’t you get off my-”

“Yes, we would.” Michael cuts him off forcefully enough it makes Eve flinch away from the receiver.

“You what?” Crowley doesn’t attempt to hide his incredulity.

“I don’t think you quite understand the position Mr Fell is in, or you would not be defending his failures. His connection with Gabriel Fell is only useful until the elections in Bologna University. After your idiotic stunt _,_ we cannot afford more double agents rendered useless. If Mr Aziraphale Fell fails at gathering information from his younger brother, his only use would be feeding information to his older one.”

Crowley feels the gravity of every single word sink in, and by the end of it his chest is filled with lead. _They wouldn’t… They won’t just…_

“You won’t give one of your own agents up like a sacrificial pawn.” Doubt creeps in Crowley’s voice even as he says that.

“We were always prepared for that eventuality. Mr Fell was given all the information he would be coerced into giving up on day one. And we might not _like_ it, but we have been willing to sacrifice our own agents even before Mr Fell came into the picture as a last ditch effort not to. To prevent the instrument in Bologna from falling into the Magisterium’s hands, we are willing to sacrifice our own alethiometrist’s life for a chance to extract it. An operative much more useful than Mr Fell. And surely, Mr Fell’s own family won’t be anywhere near as drastic as the Magisterium operatives in Bologna will be once Mr Fell gives up the alethiometrist’s name.” 

This time Crowley can’t stop the numbing cold from seeping into his veins and slowly taking over his whole body. _You don’t know what Sandalphon Fell is like,_ he thinks, but the words get stuck in his throat. _They don’t care. They don’t even care about the life of the poor man or woman risking everything for them in Bologna._ Crowley wants to scream, sob, protest. He stays quiet, a trembling hand covering his mouth as if to keep everything in.

“So you see, Mr Crowley, _your failure_ carries much more gravity than you seem to think. You still have a week to help Mr Fell get results, and then your operation will be shut down and we proceed with the initial plan.”

The line goes dead before Crowley even has a chance to reply. He wouldn’t even if he did, he stays frozen in place, the receiver held up to his ear, listening to the repetitive drone of the disconnect tone, somehow impossibly loud in the dark empty flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, obviously this is not The End. As mentioned before, this story is told in two parts, a split done in order for a fic that took longer to write than first expected to be able to be included in the 2019 Good Omens Big Bang. 'Conjunction' is the first part where they come together, share the same patch of sky, if you will. In 'Collision', the second part, everything that has been set into motion will finally crash into place and the consequences of that will follow. I hope to see you there. Subscribing to or bookmarking the series will let you know when it goes up, and then you can follow it separately to read each new chapter. Thank you for reading, and for putting up with the inconvenience splitting the story causes.


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